Tuesday, July 23, 2013


Seen waiting for the Red Line to 95th at about 8:15 a.m.

Stuffed. Though he is already a tall man, Charles cannot help but think that something inside him is even taller. His soul, his spirit, his past lives, his alter-ego—he isn’t sure what exactly it is. But he constantly feels that he’s brushing against the ceiling of his own head, and his gut bulges unevenly, like some sort of gooey paste is just a pinprick away from oozing out all over the front of his trousers.

This condition (whether mental or physical) makes life difficult for Charles. He has not progressed in his company; whenever he has an important idea to contribute, it seems too big and blocky to squeeze out of his small, wet mouth. His tongue, however, is anything but small. This is what hinders his romantic relationships; whenever he sticks his tongue in a woman’s mouth, it writhes so far back that she chokes. One of his dates, a marine biologist, told him it felt like an octopus tentacle. He has tried seeing women with large mouths, but ultimately he finds their gaping orifices unattractive.

Charles knows he’s too old for superheroes, but he feels an affinity for The Hulk nonetheless. He wishes he could get so worked up that his body would burst and his skin would stretch and his clothes would tear and whatever’s cramped up in there would break free. Unfortunately, Charles is much too listless for anger, and he is also afraid—though he would never admit it.

I am super excited because I just found out I have ONE LAST CHICAGOLAND GOGO GIG before I move to Vegas! It's at Taste of Lincolnshire this Saturday at 5:30 p.m., if you're interested. Dancing with The Fortunate Sons, as usual. Can't wait to shimmy and shake it.

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