January January stumbles in with a pained whisper, hungover mornings and cold feet on hardwood. It's not the failure of good intentions we look forward to. It’s the steady reminder of dust falling on the tongue. This year, I'm going to get in shape so I can break every heart that ever broke mine, get rich and buy the bank that owns me, find the volcano with the elevator that goes to the center of the Earth, where the giant ants live. They have the best coffee and sweet rolls. Everyone knows that. When the sky falls, it's easy to find malleable chickens under all the rubble and hope that they've learned something useful from the pressure. Until then, it’s a matter of waiting for the splinters to attack, when all the tweezers have gone dingo. What’s that ahead? Desert, then jungle, then more desert, then a rest area in the shape of a pumpkin that only sells plastic daffodils that smell like your mothe...
Like the title says.