I don't want to register patients. I don't want to talk on the phone. I don't want to be nice to people. I don't want to type this post. I don't want to try to be witty. I don't want to wear the shirt I'm wearing any more. I don't want to wear these pants, either. I don't want to go for a walk. I don't want to go for a run. I don't want to read a book. I don't want to watch TV. I don't want to make small talk with anybody. I don't want to sit. I don't want to stand. I don't want to lie down. I don't want to listen to the radio. I don't want to sharpen a pencil. I don't want to eat dinner. I don't want to go to the bathroom. I don't want to suck on another watermelon Jolly Rancher. I don't want to think about cleaning out my attic or garage. I don't want to contemplate President Obama's second term approval ratings. I don't want to hear about the civil war in Syria. I don't want to hear about the death of Esther Williams.
Think of me as an ostrich with its head in the sand. I'm not here. I'm not there. I'm not anywhere. I'm in my little hole in the ground, ignoring everything and everyone. You can't join me.
There's only room for Saint Marty.
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| Go find your own hole... |
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