I did it.
I just went and fucking did it.
I took a deep breath and said, “Jeff...” (cause that’s my name) “Jeff, maybe its time you stopping buying the organic broccoflower because its kinda expensive and because its not always as pleasing as you expect it to be and because — liberal as you may be — there’s something truly unnatural about a white inflorescence meristem making the love with an edible green flower head.”
And so now… next time I’m at the market… I will walk right by the broccoflower… and maybe go with some snap peas or asparagus or even a nice, fresh kumquat.
Also, I’ve quit using the word “maritime”. I’ve done this first because I don’t often find myself in conversations about “the sea” or “seafaring” or other, like, y’know... sea things, but second because I think there are perfectly good synonyms like” oceangoing” or “nautical” or even “littoral”.
And so, adios “maritime”… WE. ARE. DONE.
Ok, other things I’ve quit recently:
...jumping jacks…
...wearing my colander as a hat…
...working on my MFA in the lost art of the screaming mime...
...French kissing Swedish Fish…
...breakdancing…
...eating fingernail clippings…
...going to the beach in 7th century chain mail…
...randomly yelling “Cholera! Cholera!” as I exit a crowded restaurant.
(Also, less hard boiled eggs, which gives me gas.)
I’ve quit all these things!
Really I have!
SO TAKE THAT!
I’ve quit all these things and I’m writing a diary about it because I want all of you in the Broccoflower, jumping jack, and cholera industries to feel REALLY REALLY REALLY shitty about yourselves (and maybe even question your constant use of “maritime”) and nothing sways opinions like a tantrum from someone who has momentarily been convinced that they are the center of the world.
So, I wish you a happy Saturday morning and invite you to return to this space later, when I’ll spend six hours tell you every detail of the dream I had last night and then go into an in-depth description of my latest bowel movement.
