I swear I had a reason in Normal entries

You know what? You know what? I’ll tell you what, boy, what killed the dinosaurs; Texas. Maybe a meteor too, but Texas sure had a hand in it. There are worse ways to commit Texas than reptile genocide. They still didn’t get em all; sturgeon are kind of dinosaurs.
I knew a woman who used to say ‘There are two kinds of people; them that’s been to Texas and them that hasn’t.’ She thought it was funny in a snarky kind of way. When someone would say ‘The only surety you get is death and taxes (or something like that)’ She’d say “Death or Texas? I have a choice? Can I get a few minutes?’ She’d have to wait years sometimes for the opportunity, but she had that one ready in her back pocket. She might be dead; we’ve been out of touch.
I was watching some TV show through the toes darkly. The teenage daughter says “We live in Texas! It’s not even a real state, it’s a republic. Anywhere else, dad, anywhere.” I don’t remember if I liked the show or not.
I have public reasons and private reasons. Texas is one of those things I have both on. With? When I try thinking with a Texan accent I trust myself a bit less. I told this guy, fresh from a lifetime in Austin, that Texan accents just make people assume you’re dumber than you are. He drawled something about getting me in a poker game and how he had a few bills without plans.
In the early days of OD I had a format sort of like this. Numbered and bullet pointed variations on a word, a sort of precursor to flash Fridays. The last several I wrote were called freaklets. This guy, who near the end of his ODing called himself slothropian — fuck, now I can’t remember — a character, I think, from gravity’s rainbow, a book that put me to sleep by just looking at the cover. He did something similar, and first, called — fuck — something like spatial relationships and their dirty mistresses.

Texas counts as a word/concept, freaklet/spatial relationship and dirty mistresses. Sloth did those things before me, so I had to change the approach and you know, it was more of a homage than a lack of ideas.

It’s feels kind of different when you write one you like. You can’t really do anything with them. There was this short story by Ray Bradbury. This guy meets Picasso on the beach drawing fantastic murals in the sand. The guy watches the tide come in. Always think of yourself as Picasso; always think that the best of your endeavors are ephemeral. The work of your hands doesn’t need a purpose, well, not always.

I slept damn near twelve hours last night. Sleep deprivation makes me a little high strung, testy, snappish. Too much sleep makes me disjointed and disorientated. In the last year or two most of what I write that tracks poorly is written overtime; not that I think about it over time, the opposite. I forget and the choice, sometimes days later is delete or add to it. I’m running about 65 - 30 on that, in deleted’s favor, five percent assorted weird shit. I know, I know, how shitty does something have to be for the dawg to delete it? First off, shut up. Second off, the deleted ones aren’t always deleted because they’re shitty. Hmmm, not just because they’re shitty.

Now it’s my turn to shut up. If you’re reading this you’ll know that I posted it or I’ll know you’re the one hacking my shit.