I like my anxiety today.
It’s for Enid’s conundrum.
It’s for Abby’s new boobs.
It’s for Charlie’s cats.
It’s for Sam’s love.
My anxiety is not mine.
It requires no choice.
Everything is out of my control.
Which may mean everything is under my control.
Because it can’t be controlled?
Choices are just questions.
Decisions are just answers.
Or is it the other way around?
I don’t know.
What do you think I should do?
You say potato.
I say tomato.
Should we go outside?
Should we break some bread?
Should we listen to Joanna Newsom?
I don’t have many choices these days.
And I don’t know what to do with that fact.
It kinda feels good.
It’s like the opposite of the menu at Cheesecake Factory.
What’s the soup du jour? It’s the soup of the day.
What should I fall asleep to tonight?
Happy Endings.
What should I write tomorrow?
Nada.
And be happy.
Wait, where the hell is Drag?
Why did she disappear?
She has her reasons.
But reasons are overrated.
Gimme a song, a clue, flapjacks, I guess.
It’s like Doc Brown said.
Marty, we all have to make decisions that affect the course of our lives.
You've gotta do what you've gotta do. And I've gotta do what I've gotta do.
Put that in your pipe.
And shove it up your ass.