I should live in a different neighborhood of the City. Eat less meat. Eat more meat. Gain my weight back. Lose another 40 pounds. Make wild rice. With a toothpick and toilet water.

I get emails about how I'm a hunk. From mustached men. Living in Arkansas. I should stop emailing Ruthie. I didn't know I was her son's age. Can she go to jail for that? For my hot pursuit of her tah-tahs?

Every morning I have to get up and wash my teeth so they don't fall out. I wash that thing dangling between my legs so it won't fall off either.

Things falling. Moving. Internet correspondence. Voice Mail. Mad Magazine slyly placed inside a Penthouse magazine while on the bus so no one will think I need to have sketches with my satire. Your daughter is lovely, what school does she attend?

Her mother gives me a dirty look and I realize that my Penthouse is doing a horrible job covering up the Alfred E. Newman logo.

Society demands that I be not myself. Organization plagues me.

Poo doesn't go into the clothes hamper and dirty clothes won't get cleaned in the garbage disposal.

Cherry Bleeds is 9 years old. According to legend we should throw a party...actually, in all seriousness, I only see the future and the past has some wins and some losses. A trophy means my next apartment needs to be bigger. The people of Cherry Bleeds matter more to me than it. IT.

Except for all the damn Bukowski worshippers. Read the Bible. That's literature gone mad. That throws Kathy Lee Gifford's eyeballs into the back of her head. See if you can read that and not catch yourself in the middle of the struggle of good and evil. On a universal scale. Because you're so damn important. You're not a spec on this planet revolving. You should have a panic attack every two minutes, knowing that we're catapulting through space, around a fireball. Giving off more heat than a suicide bomber for Ala.

What's next for us? How many Earth spins will it take to get to the next issue of Cherry Bleeds.

There are changes coming.

I love you. Submit. Keep reading. Yadda, yadda. Us humans are so damn predictable. Where's my New Yorker?