Friday, October 29: I finally bandaged a gash on my index finger but only because it appeared to be festering and I didn’t want students to focus on an oozing open sore over their troublesome grammatical errors. I later exed over and reopened the original wound while cutting a stale piece of sourdough bread and no, not with the knife. Apparently old food takes on a dull edge that hurts, for lack of a better word, like a motherfucker.
Saturday, October 30: South Mo-Pac and 183, two major traffic arteries, were closed early Saturday morning leaving drivers to scatter like cockroaches into the surrounding neighborhoods for alternate routes. Why? Because on an overpass high above the two highways’ intersection a man was burning to death in his flipped over gasoline tanker. The 7AM atmosphere confined the thick black smoke into a hazy stripe across the horizon and at the mouth of this colorless rainbow, fire gushed like an inverted waterfall into the sky, its moist spray, a smoky perversion. I watched the flames with fearful wonderment as I slowly steered my car among the living. If I’m to reach the precipice of death before humanity realizes and shares immortality, I hope, hope, hope my fall will be as disruptive and commanding as the one I witnessed this weekend.
Sunday, October 31: Shoes are back in my footwear rotation and I’ve taken to grooming the various holes in my face with fine instruments because my rancid finger injury and likely scar are only complementing my knobby toes and the more and more frequent hair trolling out of my ears. I’ve become Dorian Grey but my portrait is gnarling in real-time. . .and I’m not an asshole. The bumpy toes are a direct response to the fat thongs of my Croc sandals, apparel that I’ve lazily worn instead of real shoes for the past 8 months, but my ear coiffure is explicable only within margins of our times, a period I’ve affectionately titled “The Deformative Years.”