Roll with it baby

You've got to roll with it baby. Remember childhood? When Bugs Bunny was king. When crushing small men with lisps and handlebar mustaches was just? When bike riding, skinned knees, picking your nose, and pretending to be someone, anyone actually, rather than who you were, filled your days? So I have to ask myself how I lost a grip on reality. How I found myself sitting at a small desk, feeling my ass spread, wondering how to not work and still manage to pay the bills?

Here follows the divine answer (which will give no satisfaction. If you're looking for real answers, you'd be reading the Dalai Lama's blog, not mine. Though don't let the old bugger fool you--he doesn't really have the answers either, unless you call being nice to people an answer, and really, what fun is there in that?) So again, here follows the divine answer (or, in any case, the investigation of the divine answer--quit splitting hairs!):

Things.

Things and thoughts.

Things are a prison. Everything, from my shoes, to my haircut, to my house, to my Ikea couch are a prison. Help! I'm trapped under the weight of things. But more than that, I'm smothered by the knowledge that what other people think of my things (yes, boobs included, those of you with innuendo on the brain), is crushing me. Yet I allow it. Enable it. Sometimes, secretly enjoy it. To my own ultimate destruction.

This no more than Tyler Durden has already screamed at the world. You secretly know it. The divinity comes in finding out how to get out from under. How to toss it all aside for a begging bowl and a chance to chase the Dalia Lama's orange hem.

So this is my counsel: Give it away. Turn it over. Strip bare. Quit your job. Walk away.

But before you go, could you let me know where you leave your house keys?