The wheel of life
Braked on November 9, 2025.
Spinning on the hamster wheel of life, taking out the trash, and bringing back in the empty can. But the can isn’t empty—it's full of empty cartons and bottles. So I stack those. I walk alone between these.
The hamster wheel suddenly locks up. The Universe stepped on the brakes. I fall forward, nose-first. Stumbling about to right myself on the grand hypotenuse of the world, I find myself: Where? The seconds pass, but mere beard-seconds away it lies in wait. It emits a creaking, ancient rumbling sound.
The wheel springs to life again—the Universe wants me to move forward again. Yet it’s just a hopeless spiral—around and around it goes, like a combine steamrolling locusts, like an angry windmill chopping up all the birds who fly too close. I start to run.
Suddenly there is no wheel. But are there hamsters? Was there ever a wheel to begin with? Or was the wheel just in my mind? Was the boot on my head all along… my own? I walk alone. And the Abyss stares into me.
A mass of beaver pelts as far as the eye can see and the nose can smell. When people wore hats, these were worth a fortune. But now—people wear boots on their head, not hats.
Once again, I was reminded that there is absolutely no way to pronounce the name of ancient Roman emperor Marcus Clodius Pupienus such that it does not sound like a sophomoric joke. I tried: I failed. I giggled like a schoolgirl still in her pigtails. Then I remembered that other ancient Roman, Polyaenus…
In but a few weeks, I would be busy each day making sure that all my Christmas lights were perfectly straight. But at the moment, I was fending off demons in Perdition. And the Universe handed me another hamster wheel: I once had a pet mouse named Catfood. But my sister had a pet cat that took things too literally. That was in 1982. Then I had a pet moose named Moosey. That was in 2011. But he turned into a skeleton in 2012. Bummer.
Only barefoot Becasue kicking me in the face would cheer me up now. Again my own little paracosm challenged reality—reality wouldn’t win this round, however. I sunk deeper into my coulrophoria. (On that note, was Bozo the Cloud still dead?)
Five-hundred to go, but I was only at four, oh, nine. In my left hand was a bottle of Formula 409®, which worked perfectly. In my right hand, a sponge shaped like a chihuahua. And in my mid hand, the realization that the quoins were all crooked—jutting out at drunken angles, laughing and mocking me for even noticing them. Living on a boulevard named after French fish soup was really starting to get to me. Why not French onions? Or green onions? Or green ideas? Colorless green ideas??
One of my Christmas lights was crooked. I murped in fright and ran to fix it.