Sometimes, I just start to go somewhere. Nowhere in particular, just to go. In the old days I'd just drive. Not to get anywhere, just to drive and see where I end up. I suppose that's what I'm doing here. Just typing and seeing where I end up. I could type something that means something, or I could just type nothing at all. In the end, the typing is the point, I think. The going is the point. To not stand still. To be somewhere other than where you are. And then be somewhere else. If you stay still, you die. Like a shark. No, not really like a shark. A shark dies for real, but you die inside. Just sitting and getting stagnant. You don't have to go anywhere important. You don't have to be anyone important. You can just be whatever. Just not stagnant. A pool fills with bugs and bacteria when it sits still. And so do you. Full of swarming parasites eating your insides. Where am I going with this? I guess nowhere in particular, and that's sorta the point, isn't it? I'm just going. Typing. Saying. Pretending I'm moving. And I am moving, in a sense. Moving my fingers. Moving my mind. Moving my thoughts from one place to another. Here between my ears to there in front of your eyes. Still, I'm just a dude typing. A dude who makes very dirty comics. A dude who has thoughts that aren't all that acceptable. But they're my thoughts. I don't act on them aside from sharing them as thoughts and concepts. I try to make them palatable. Give them a flavor outside of "ew, you fucking gross mother-fucker." Probably don't succeed. Where was I going? Typing. I'm typing. Because I need to move. I need to be. The sense of movement is worthwhile. Move your legs and get your heart going. Go for a walk. Go nowhere, but just go. Enjoy the world. Enjoy the cold. Enjoy the heat. Enjoy the sun. Enjoy the snow. Whatever is out there, see it and be a part of it. And you have to be a part of it to know you're still alive. Life is all we know. There are plenty of religions that tell you where you go afterward. They don't know. But the belief is the important part. To have a sense that you don't just stay. To know that there is more. Maybe life isn't really anything at all. Maybe it's like the tutorial part of the great game. You can't fuck it up. You can do better than others, you can do worse, but in the end it doesn't matter because the score isn't getting recorded before the real game starts. I don't know what that's about. I guess I always knew there was more, but didn't like anyone else's idea of what that "more" was. I suppose nobody has to like my idea of what more is. I can just sit here and type my thoughts. I can sit here and go. Sometimes, I like to drive for no reason. I like to see things I've never seen before. A street I've passed a thousand times but never turned down. What's there? Could be good. Probably nothing interesting, but certainly something I've never seen. A house with a giant spider sitting on the roof? Someone watering their garden in the nude? People sitting and talking while playing a banjo? Girls skipping rope to a Metallica song. I don't know. Might be down this next street. Could be right around the next corner. Nothing important, but something new. Sometimes I wish I could fly and see more new things. Maybe like superman. Okay this train of thought is getting lame. What else I got going on in here? I suppose I could say something about my socks. One of them has a hole on the heel. But I still wear it because it's cozy. It's not ruined, just well used. I suppose a lot of people think they are ruined when it's simply that they're well used. They have holes they think can't be fixed. But sometimes you don't have to fix something to still use it. To still need it. Sometimes you just wear the socks with the holes. Sometimes you wear the undies with the stain. But don't tell mom. She'll scold you for that. The world is just a refection of us, but I'm just a refection of Mom. I guess. I suppose that's why she doesn't like the reflection. That I'm this fucked up and it's her fault. I'm being mean now. She did as well as she could, I guess. Sometimes we can't fix the holes we make in other people.
