Tattooze

I have a little container I use to catch spiders. I study the spiders. I try to figure out what kind they are. If they're good, I put them back where I found them. If they're bad, I take them outside and put them on the white porch railing so a bird will see them.

I received a rejection this weekend. I made the story better and submitted it somewhere else. It's a story about a ghostly light, but really it's a story about failing to prove your parents wrong. One of the words in the story is "naked." Another word is "Facebook."

I've been getting asked about my tattoos a lot lately. By a lot, I mean a few people. By a few people, I mean two coworkers.


My tattoos mean nothing. I got them when I was in college and my parents were getting divorced. I shaved my head and got these square tattoos. When I'm 70 I won't say, "Squares are for young people."

If my tattoos mean anything (and they don't), they mean I'm a little sexier. Don't fight me on that. Tattoos are hot. I saw some bad tattoos on the back of a guy's calves the other night. They made him hotter. He was at the ice cream place with another hot guy. They got strawberry ice cream and sat outside. The ice cream melted under their hotness. They couldn't eat it fast enough.

I woke up this morning and I couldn't hear. I spent all day flushing black wax from my ears. I called in sick to work. This happens at the start of every summer. I have narrow ear canals. I don't know which parent to blame. Maybe it's all my fault.

I expected to find a bunch of spiders when I was cleaning house yesterday. I didn't even find one. I'm all spidered out.