the mail

cold bacon collected the mail this morning. the mail from yesterday. in the small wooden box, which had been happily placed on the ground by the door just a few months before. the box is really nothing special at all, not even stained or varnished or anything. just a little five-dollar box from an office supply store. it was only meant to be temporary, but as happens so often, there comes a point at which one can no longer deny that the first draft is indeed the last, especially with mailboxes. not far from all of this not-so-important still life, lives a little gecko lizard who makes regular appearances on the steps leading up to the porch, which serve as his off-stage waiting place. this is where he goes over his lines, meets with admirers and does all those things which a gecko does when he is in between acts.

dispassionancy

if people knew what cold bacon, supposedly the bringer of happiness, had gone through, the anguish and tragedy he had to overcome to manage to capture that light which has never left him, if people knew all that, they would also realize that this happiness, this light, this dispassionate wisdom which seems to be his, are sometimes well-deserved, given the severity of his trials.

cold bacon went outside

then he went right back in, after about ten seconds. it was way too fuckn' hot. give him a break. what kind of bullshit was that. my god how could it be hotter. what the fuck.

dead dead dead, finally

i regret to inform you all that cold bacon is dead. well, actually regret is probably not the right word. let us just say i am informing you that cold bacon, the person who previously wrote this blog, is dead. this means he will no longer be writing any more entries. but blogs must go on, apparently. someone must continue to post entries and that task has fallen onto me. why? because i am the one who killed him. of course, he had it coming. he should have known better than to punch people in the face. at least not in texas, where concealed handguns are the norm. and since i am normal, i had to shoot him. i won't go into any detail, but actually it wasn't any kind of sudden bang-bang-done type of thing, like you've probably already assumed. unlike most of the people i shoot, who die quickly and obligingly, this was pretty drawn out and awful. it took several shots for him to even start dying. of course it was all his fault. he kept jumping around, trying to avoid his fate, like some ancient Greek idiot. so i kept hitting him in non-vital places. i just kept shooting and shooting. blood spewing out everywhere. left arm, both shoulders, couple in the stomach. anyway, as he lay dying, he said what i did was understandable if cruel, and that he felt the least i could do would be to continue his blog. he said something like "i might be dead, but the blog, the blog must live on." then something about vladimir putin. then pushkin. or maybe he was saying pushcarts. i'm not sure. then silence. anyway, i respect the part i understood, of his mumblings, the part about blogs. or wait, was he saying dogs? the dogs must go on? anyway, just in case he was saying the blog must go on, i'll give it a go, at least until i can find someone else to take over. i will do my best to maintain the spirit of the blog. in that vein, i will be writing about him, as if he were still alive and kicking. perhaps it will be as though he is even more alive than before! but it will be in the third person. the troggs? but they haven't played a concert in forever? whatever.