How does one exist in anything less than the forty-two minutes it takes until the laundry’s done? By one, of course, I mean myself and any of the useless thoughts I’m able to squeeze through the annals of my brain. It seems to me that the process of thought and expression is a little like consuming food and shitting it out: Somewhere in between something gets digested. What are these thoughts digesting in my brain? Are they the vitamins and minerals necessary to conjure a useful thought, just as they are the plaque and fat that clog the arteries and colon of my mind? One can only assume that consuming less mental food detrimental to thought—with all its creatures and creations—causes a great deal of less-disgusting shit to spew. Methinks I need to be more careful about what my brain consumes.