funny
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The phone convulsedlike a dying cockroach—“KYLE” flashing(or was it “KILL”?hard to tell afterthat second glassof cheap Cabernet). I was busywith Doctor Zhivago—page 52—pronouncing it Chivagothe way my mother didwhen she’d play that warpedsoundtrack record,back when I was a kidsprawled on shag carpet,nose two inchesfrom the speaker fabric,studying Julie Christie’s faceon the album coverlike it held
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When it comes to the grand menagerie of pets, I’d argue the husband takes the crown—both as the best and, oh, the absolute worst. A tamed husband is a marvel, a domesticated beast of burden and delight, trotting faithfully at your side. He’ll fetch the groceries, scrub the dishes, and nod to your every whim
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April 2nd Mom had her eye fixed today. They carved out the cataracts—peeled back the fog so she can see clear again. Not that there’s much worth looking at these days. Now she won’t have an excuse when she ignores the dishes in the sink or the way my boots track mud over the linoleum.
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I’ve retired from naming shit after myself. The last one ended in a divorce decree and a lawyer’s bill. A building, park, or library wing? Yeah, I can see it now—crumbling foundations, overgrown weeds, or a dusty annex no one visits. Hard pass.
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Struttin’ Your StuffYou’re struttin’ your stride,threads loud and bright,pants huggin’ tight,feelin’ just right.Shirt’s a snug tease,assets in view,glidin’ with ease,king of the crew. Think John Travolta,Stayin’ Alive on blast,(beat thumps—boom, you’re fast),head bobbin’ side to side,back and forth, so fly,every eye’s glued,you’re the guy. Boom, boom,chakka, chakka,strut’s in full swing,you’re owning everything—then your big toe-tipsnags
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Morning crashed in like a drunk stumbling through my door—too damn soon. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking sleep, hoping the dark would swallow me back. Didn’t work. My head flickered with the big shit—the kind that jolts you awake at 3 a.m., all jagged edges and no mercy. I told myself it was just
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Negative thoughts? Oh, they’re like that one a-hole ex who won’t stop texting you—just lurking in the back of your brain, ready to pop up and ruin your vibe at the worst possible moment. Research says you need three positive hits to cancel out one of those soul-sucking negatives, but in relationships? Buckle up, buttercup,
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So I’m just a regular dude, right? Busting my hump every day, trying to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked. Then this word “tariff” barges into my life like some nasty black goo you’d peel off your flip-flop after a Santa Barbara beach day. You know—that tar that stinks like a bad decision
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So, I wake up early because I crash early—makes sense, right? But 1:30 a.m.? That’s not early; that’s just rude. I tried to zen out, refusing to grab my phone or flip on the lights—basically avoiding the overstimulation trap I used to fall into with my little girls. Back when they were 1 or 2,
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So, where would I go on a shopping spree? Buckle up, because this might shock you. I’m a sucker for REI—give me hiking gear and tools any day—but deep down? I’m a mushy romantic. Yeah, I know, wild plot twist! If my employees or subcontractors caught wind of this, they’d choke on their energy drinks
BB Grey--musings 