Bitter Boy

"I'm not bitter, I'm an artist!
Reminds me of when I was in France and, in response to a french friend calling me out on a cheerful beer fueled rant, I triumphantly exclaimed:
"I'm not drunk, I'm an american!"
So put on a pot of coffee and gather the wife and kids and I will post.
 You know, it's true that adulthood brings on a keener sense for the sour and bitter regions of the papillae.
Before I explain the temporary blunder of actually worrying about my life, however,  I must comment on the troubling amount of hair that you put around the pumpkin hole. A whole new meaning to the term JACK-o- lantern (too easy). They're not supposed to be that terrifying, Charley.. I have my suspicion that it was summarily rejected from the carving contest and so you grabbed it out of your car trunk real quick to snap the photo before security realized you hadn't left.

On second thought, put the kids to bed.
          
Now, back to my demoralized and wanton morass of self pity. I should like to start with a touching, even poignant moment that greeted me this morning, which sort of says it all.

                                

Every morning, my dogs leave me something. Usually it is a bill or other important piece of paper ( I continually forget NOT to leave out) that has been shredded and chewed into bits. This is often the work of my 110 lb Akita boy. He could chew a dining room table into vapor but prefers (thank god) to make  spit balls by working each little tab of paper, say, from a Jury Duty notice, vigorously with his front teeth, until it resembles a grain of rice. He did once chew the top of the couch off along with the blinds of the window behind it, in an effort to gnaw his way to the backyard in order to take a shit. I didn't have the heart to be mad at such a heroic effort to be a "Good Boy".
 My two girls ('dogs', dear future, anonymous reader) like to 'suck' on any socks or 'shoes' they can get a hold of. They have come to understand that to chew a hole in the master's footwear is a very bad thing so they literally steal stuff and sort of, well, suck on it.
The above picture is as appropriatley out of focus as my naked eyes are in the dawn's early light. That is my lunch money (and coincidentally, my life savings) marking the exact spots where there had been a series of small turds. Notice the elegant arcing turn, as the beast attempted to negotiate a table. I would need to return to these spots momentarily with an enzyme solution that could neutralize the imbedded remnants of the offense.
What is my point, anyways? Truly, I've forgotten....o, yeah... by marking it with my lunch money I would be able to deliver the solution to each exact spot and not waste any.
This, my dear friend, is my life.
And yet....but in a single, fleeting romance, I could lose all of my sorrows with that pumpkin of yours.
By the way, is that the same hole for putting the drinks in first?

New Subject:

I dug up the original "Fuck the Race" for your viewing pleasure. This t-shirt is now 20 yrs old. The age I was when I made it. The original, original was a doodle I left on a note on the fridge at Sentry Hill explaining that i had to go away for the weekend to my Aunt's wedding.

I disagree about the image we should use, even though I almost weep with nostalgia at the sight of those two little fellas..
It needs to be simpler, more iconic like I suggested over the phone. I will send you a $138,395,032  idea shortly and then you can post a note telling me I'm wrong.

While I was rooting around in the basement for the shirt, I found another little treasure in an old NYC journal.
I blame him for everything.