Feeding a Sore Head

I wanted to write something that would make people happy. That’s why I wrote this.

People were walking all across the sidewalks yesterday. And I was walking with them. I couldn’t stop. If I did, people might stare. So I kept walking, but if only my feet could have eyes! Because I tripped and fell like a denied fly.

My face was sore. My body was sore.

A woman offered a hand that I didn’t see until I was back on my knees. So I shook my right hand a little to shake off some dirt, and then I leaned on the leverage she provided. I thanked her as I rose. She said something, and I thanked her again. In fact, I was so grateful that my tongue got confused and I said, “Thank you a lot.” Note the lack of a comma. But what I meant to say is quite obvious, and I do hope she realized that.

I couldn’t stop thinking about this as I walked away, and walked towards whatever it was I was walking to. No, seriously, I forgot where I was going. And I still don’t know where I was going. Did the fall scramble my brain? Was my brain cooked by the boiling pavement? No, it wasn’t that hot. And no, I didn’t trip. I lied about that. I knew perfectly well what I was doing that day. I was going to see an opera. Yes, an opera. “Oh, really?” You might be thinking, “Which opera?” The Phantom of the Opera.  And that, my friends, is the truth.

But I didn’t make it, because I didn’t go. Instead, I walked over to the kitchen and cooked me some bacon. Bacon that I used to feed myself with. It was good. It was very good. And that, my friends, is the ultimate truth.

Advertisement