I'd Like to Run A Food Truck

I'd like to run a food truck, though I cannot cook. My greatest culinary achievement to this date is an omelet that I managed to flip with only a slight crack in its structural integrity. It was a damn good omelet too. Still, I'd like to run a food truck. I'd like to drive through each and every major city, watch as the people there get fat off my delicious cuisine, smile and come back for more, then move on so that I can experience it all again. Now, I don't know what I'd serve, but I know the local papers would rave about it. I know the reviews on Yelp would be too flattering to even read. I know my truck would become a national sensation. Cities would desperately anticipate its arrival. The McRib. My truck would be the McRib of food trucks.

I'd like to have a family too. An average family--a wife, a daughter, a son, two dogs, a cat and three fish. We would try not to travel when the kids were in school. They would make friends. They would lead normal lives. They would have a home base. Then, come winter or summer break, they would set sail onto the metaphorical seven seas. They would see parts of America most kids only read about in Geography courses. They would be contributing members of the best damn food truck in the world. And I would be there father.

I'd like to ride horses into the sunset. I'd like to be the hero. Like in the movies. I call myself The Man with No Name; I snarl like Clint Eastwood. It's sad, yes, but in the funniest way possible.

I sing songs to myself. I pretend I'm on the stage. There are audiences everywhere I go. You are in the crowd ... and you and you and you and, yes, even you. I interview myself. Ask the most intuitive of questions and respond with the wittiest of retorts. There are people, imaginary people, who kill for my autographs. You can have one. At the moment, they are free.

I'd like to run a food truck. I'd like to drive into the sea.

Things Duct Tape Can't Fix

Lately, he had developed a hobby of making lists, but he found that the lists too quickly became existential and self-analytical as customary with everything he wrote. The lists were never predicated by an important topic. They were simply the nonsensical rattling off of various items, phrases, actions, people, places, ideas, thoughts, things, street names, animals, theologies, philosophies, roads, foods, songs, bands, movies, office suppliers, composers, painters, third century historians, that related to a particular title which, for reasons unknown, had been lodged in his thoughts, yet as silly as the practice was, he still managed to delve into nihilism with each successive list, to unearth the darkest parts of his soul with lists such as "Ways the Smurfs Convinced Me of the Divinity of the Lord Jesus Christ and His Father, Papa Christ."