Maserati or Spaghetti
I am attempting to wake up a happy human being. I know this might be difficult some days. If I eat too much sugar the night before, I don’t wake up happy. I wake up feeling like shit. Feeling like shit is as far away from happy as Alaska is to Brazil. That’s far. I will endeavor to eat less sugar. Or be content with waking up feeling like shit.
Both have their merits.
I am dreaming of a new car. I don’t want a Tesla. I don’t care if they run on AA batteries or the sun’s undying love for humanity. I don’t like the sound they make when they back up. Sounds like a UFO landing. That’s not good. I don’t want to be reminded of intelligent life in outer space every time I try to parallel park.
I’d like a Maserati. Or a Porsche. I like the sound a Porsche makes when the engine starts. It sounds badass. I need more badassery in my life. My life has become an endless series of texts, posts, emails and iPhone notifications. The notifications sound like little silver bells. I think I’m being served dinner by some butler every time I hear a bell in my pocket. But then no food comes. Only a list from my wife to get food.
I think I’ll try a car horn or Spanish guitar sound. Just to keep it fresh.
I wanted to write in my paper journal before turning on this computer and typing out these lines. My higher power—I call him “Bill”—said, “You know you shouldn’t get in front of that giant screen before journaling in your recycled paper journal…”
I said, “Yes, Bill, I know. Now why don’t you just shut the fuck up and drink some coffee.”
I heard nothing back.
I believe all people are good underneath all their sweaters, jackets, shirts and vests. I just think more people should eat less pancakes and more salads. They’d shit more and that would make them happy. The more regular people in the world, maybe less problems. United by the porcelain bowl. Or plastic porta-potty. Or marble bidet. We’re all entitled to our preferences.
I forgot to write out my goals, affirmations and messages to my subconscious. I need to tell my subconscious, whom I call “Larry,” what I want, when I want, and how I want. Otherwise, Larry gets confused and brings me spaghetti when I clearly asked for a Maserati.
I want to travel the world with my wife. I want someone else to bring our luggage. Preferably someone at least 20 feet away from me at all times.
I want my wife to understand I’m on a carb-free diet. I don’t want her getting angry if I don’t partake in fresh-baked muffins from the Italian bakery. I don’t even know what Italian bakery to visit. I haven’t even gotten on the plane yet.
I want that Porsche. Or Maserati. I said I don’t want spaghetti. I’m on a carb-free diet, Larry.
I want to learn how to love steak with butter. So I can really get down with the keto, paleo or whatever the hell you call that diet where you eat steak with butter but no syrup.
I want peace and love to infiltrate every cell in every body on the planet. Or if that’s not possible, at least infiltrate my own personal cells. I can share later.
©2023 Bruce Palma. All rights reserved.