The Mexican Jumping Beans...
I think I'm losing my mind. I'm sitting here at my computer, in my underwear, trying to write a simple, yet beautiful post, describing this conversation I had with my daughter about cancer and mortality and all I can hear is a cacophonous symphony made up of bad television, crickets, Mexican Jumping Beans and a cycling dishwasher, batting around an errant Tupperware. My head is starting to pound. Not throb. POUND. I want to tear my own face off. Like that movie, "Face Off". The TV is so loud that I'm beginning to mix signals and words. My brain is confusing my thoughts about cancer and my daughter, with white, middle class, sexy vampires and Dove soap. I look back over my shoulder at my wife. Of course she's fast asleep. I want to walk over to her and say, "HEY! HOW'S YOUR SHOW?" But I'm only a dick in my head. I refrain. I just lower the volume on the TV instead. God Dammit! Now I've got to contend with those crazy, fucking, Mexican Jump...