Although it is impossible to qualify or quantify the human experience, I can tell you with absolute certainty that you don’t know uncomfortable until you’re standing in line during rush hour at the local pharmacy waiting to pick up your anti-anxiety medication with your wife (who is covered in scrapes and bruises in various stages of wound healing and is dressed like a hobo with her breeches tucked into her socks) when her phone rings and after exchanging greetings, she says, “Gurrrl, Ben was a *pistol* yesterday. He bucked and kicked until he almost GOT ME OFF…I know, right?! I was so mad I had to take some deep breaths and then I rode that shit out until he behaved himself…Yeah. By the end, he was in my hands. I fed him supper and left his ass out for the night to get some energy out. Bet he’ll be tired tomorrow!…”

Me at CVS, circa 2019

No good deed goes unpunished.

Everybody That’s Lived Long Enough

Hay is like shame; it doesn’t wash off. Or out. It’s a terminal condition that I named “FHE” (Fucking Hay Everywhere).

Me this whole time