Wallowing in Frivolity

One thing I was thinking about today on my run was how easy it is to think about things that bother me. That idea bothered me though. That's not good. That's not how you should live your life. I've started trying to do this thing where I focus on the positive. Positive thinking. If you can find the positive and fuel yourself on positive energy, nothing can stop you. They might as well hand you the heavyweight championship belt right now. It will save you the trouble of having to positive think yourself to being six inches taller and one hundred fifty pounds heavier. I truly believe that with the power of positive thinking I could train a squirrel to go into a pregnant woman's uterus and remove the umbilical chord that is strangling her baby to death. Nothing could stop me. I could heat up a boiling pot of water and touch it and be like, "I don't think this is very hot at all."

The problem with positive thinking is that I'm not very good at it. Or rather, I'm not very compatible with it. Getting back to earlier today, when I was running I saw some billowy clouds off in the distance. You know when the clouds get all big and billowy and they kinda look like this magical kingdom in the sky that has free bicycles and lots of really great places to buy fresh produce? That, to me, is like positive thinking. You can see it and identify it but it's this ephemeral thing that's off in the distance. You can't touch it or experience it in any other way. It's this thing that I watch and understand but can't feeling any connection to, like how I feel about volunteer work.

And the problem with things that bother me is that I can squeeze 'em and stretch 'em and roll them into a ball and throw them against the window and watch them slowly ooze down to the floor. They're amazing. You can spend hours just messing around with the things that bother you.  You can share it with friends. Negative thinking is like holding a severed old man's foot. You can't believe how disgusting it is yet it fits so well in your hand. And the more you squeeze it and bash it against pianos and stuff, the more nastiness comes out. It's a vicious cycle of fantastical grossness and the whole time you're like, "I can't believe how gross this old man foot is! Ohhhhhhhh! I'm still holding it! The curve of the arch fits so well in my palm! I turn it upside down and orange stuff comes out! What is that?! It's got layers in the back here that just keep peeling off like an onion. It smells like and feels like cold possum-barbecue meat marinated in pond scum!"

So, I guess what I'm wishing for is that at some point in the land of severed old man feet and rotting fruit, I find a communicator wrist-watch that controls a giant robot in the land of the clouds that I can fly away in and go to a place with lots of orange juice and colorful clothing in the sun.