I am God damned tired.

Really dead-damned-dog-tired.

There is a mucus fog that keeps me from the only occupation that my genetic code prescribed to me: thinking. I can’t do it, God damn it, not lately.

I’ll knock out a few puzzling questions in the bath while chomping on a fat, water-soaked honeycrisp apple every now and then, but for the most part the well has been dry. It’s a real shame.

I put words to internet database in the dark of last night about laboring my body in unquenchable situations. These situations have greedily slurped me up, have not returned me to me, yet.

And who’s to say they ever will!

I’ll come across a cob-web-coughing dustbucket of a curmudgeon, skin drooping off of bone like rotten meat. They’ll say surly things and stir around in darkness. I want to tell them, hey, I fucking get you, man. I know that you want to die — and not because of any shit-ass human emotions — but because, fuck! You’re tired as hell! You’ve spent your whole life doing things that no one wants to do!

I don’t want to ride this ride any longer. In fact, I have a better idea:

I want to live on a planet that is a total of one hundred acres, filled with variegated landscape and every fruit and vegetable and vegetarian animal from the blue orb that I currently run around on. Carnivores are welcome, if they’re willing to play nice. No one has to die, we can just live there for the ever and ever. The only inhabitants are hand-picked diplomats that I’d known from the blue orb (and they are, of course, welcome to decline my invitation). The sun only disappears when we want it to (which will be appropriate when we want to have fires or catch fireflies (which are then immediately released)). Everyone will sit through a seminar taught by Carl Sagan on how to approach any situation with both rationality and heart. (In addition, Carl Sagan will also live on this planet.)

We won’t ever have to sleep, because there’s nothing to escape from, nothing that we can’t have.

We will spend our endless days picking fruits and vegetables and our endless nights writing novels and songs and catching fireflies (which are then immediately released). There will be no machinery. Clothing is optional. (I will be bashful around Albert Einstein only once before we accept each others’ bodies.)

Hey, all right! I want that to happen right now, actually.

Instead, I live on a planet where bottles of expensive fragranced water have titles. The bottle I have is called “Aloha.” On the back is a small drawing of a country that we forcibly took from peaceful natives and made into our fiftieth commonwealth, because forty-nine stars on a flag is just damned near impossible to look at without involuntarily displacing the contents of one’s stomach.

The bottle then goes on to insult our intelligence, tells us something that would not be foreign to a newborn infant seconds after leaving the womb of his mother:

“HAWAII: Aloha means both “goodbye” and “hello.” So, we wave aloha to odor and say aloha to freshness.”

Wow!

Wow!

That whole thing about me creating my own planet sounds pretty fucking fantastic, huh!

Friends, I am tired.

I will, at some point, in a less-exhaustive state, write about the Big Issue I have encountered lately. I mentioned it briefly in October. It is about how nothing is important without the perception of other beings, and fuck the perception of other beings, because those other beings are the worst beings of any beings that I know of: they are human beings.

I’ll bet that sounds like something a first-semester philosophy student discards of in the toilet, sure!

But . . . I will do that another time. I am, yes, too tired to do so now.

I keep bathing, keep dreaming, keep sipping tea and crunching on plump apples. It’s something of a collection of hobbies, everything I do. I would like to do more of what I want to do, but those wishes are best left to penniless psychopaths and silly-stupid ultra-wealthy slobs who sniff their wine and pretend to know anything (I serve these sorts all the time, don’t you know). That hurt — a lot, actually — to write that, just now.

Serve! Fucking, fuck!

I will have you know, my dear friends, that I have been masterminding this planet idea during many private baths while gorging on many red-yellow apples. I have a plan to make it exist in a crippled, sputtering form on the blue orb. It something of a hobby, to plan this thing. I won’t be able to control the weather, or never die, and my heroes will instead have to live in my head and bookshelf rather than across the hall (we would all live in a sprawling mansion in this planet of mine). “The Preliminary Education of Ryan Litton,” is spiraling to the dark below, so I’m planning, planning: I’m moving my body and my sentimental junk to a comfortable planet not far from the planet I live on now. You are welcome over for dinner. We won’t be eating any animals. You may not use my towels.

I have a thing about sharing towels.

(A towel will be provided to you, however.)

All of this will spark and explode and rumble to life in one revolution of the blue orb around the angry red star, more or less. I anticipate the movement of the planet and stars, if it means closing the gap between Now and The Big Plan.

It is, ahem, the only time I will lay down my sword and look away as The Future sweeps past me to take from me little parts of my body and mind and heart.

It’s going to be painful!

There will be months and months of not doing what I want to do, so that I may eventually do what I want to do for the ever and ever.

Hopefully that includes the lifting of the fog and the consumption of round fruits.