No Woman Ever Shot A Man While He Was Doing The Dishes

Yesterday I was alone in my apartment doing dishes. I grabbed the soap bottle, squeezed, and an unusual amount of bubbles came out. It looked like there were hundreds of them, now floating all around me like fireflies.

"Pretty," I thought.

So I finished the dishes, puttered, tidied, and when I finally went back to the kitchen about fifteen minutes later, I was amazed to find a dozen bubbles had landed in the sink, still unpopped.

"Super bubbles," I thought.

So I went to my room, read, surfed the web, made a call or two, and then went back to the kitchen for some chocolate. By now it had been well over an hour since my dish washing, and the beautiful, everlasting bubbles had vanished from my mind. But guess what?! YUP, there they were - bubbles, happy and as lively as ever.

There was no logical explanation they could still be in the sink. I mean, these bubbles came from C-Town soap, not Willy Wonka. So I slowly put my finger on top of one and then quickly retreated. It stung me, almost cut the tip of my finger. And then I leaned down at the bubbles, real real close, and finally realized what they were. Little circles of glass. The previous night I had broken a cup doing the dishes, and although I had thought I'd cleaned them all up, I must have missed a few (or a lot), because dozens of pieces remained, glazing the top of the sink.

I guess that's life for you. What you think is beautiful and delicate can actually slice your throat. So look close.

Circles

I was in my girlfriend’s art studio this weekend. She was making a sculpture, but by the way I was positioned, I couldn’t see it, I could only see a wooden pillar, which was hiding the sculpture behind it. She kept circling the sculpture, looking up at it, and it was amazing - seeing a person focus all of their creative energy on what appeared to be nothing but air.

If 6 was 9

Near my apartment there's an abandoned building, or at least it appears to be. On the front door of the building someone spray painted a black figure with a bright, white face. It horrifies me. I hate walking by it, and as silly as it sounds, I constantly imagine the spray painted figure coming to life, chasing me, and swallowing me whole.

Yesterday I walked by the abandoned building. On the front door was the black figure, as always, but someone had changed its face. Instead of something bright, white, and horrifying, there was now the face of Jimi Hendrix. Someone, somewhere, took the time to transform this ghoul into a rock and roll legend, and now I would do anything in my power to have it come to life.