yin: “You know what we should do?  Is make a nice loaf of homemade bread.  There’s nothing like the smell of a freshly baked loaf cooling on the window sill to turn a house into a home.” yang: “Well, I hear sex on the kitchen table works, too—but to be honest, so long as we have a stick of butter, I’d just as soon save myself the two minutes and

If it hadn’t been for that racist George Washington, you can bet your ass we’d be talking about, say, sixty-five acres and a mule.  Miserable wigged honky fop.*

So I’m filling up at a gas station out by the hospital for the criminally insane, eating a Halloween apple, when I suddenly slice my tongue near in half on a razor blade some asshole neighbor’d tucked inside the thing. Which, under normal circumstances, would have totally sucked—except that when I pulled up to the emergency room, one of the paramedics pointed out the bloody hook hanging from the passenger-side

yin: “I should be home at around 4-4:30, I should think.  Though do remember that within quantum mechanics, the science of the body in motion, the intricacies of the interiorities of mnemonic time—no longer an arrow—are being realized in the (traditionally) feminized shape of the body of the matrix.” yang:  “So, then, what?—closer to 6-ish?  Well, just so long as you leave yourself enough time to make sure my baked

yin: “I have to admit, I just don’t get the appeal of watching a bunch of middle-aged men in polo shirts and sweater vests fretting over how many shots it takes them to get a little white ball into a hole in the ground.  And yet you guys seem mesmerized by it.” yang: “Well, it’s simple, really.  It’s because men are from Mars, and women are from the planet of

me:  “Memory is a slippery thing, you know?  I mean, for Proust, memory was a living dichotomy—either conscious, and owing to human intelligence and the mechanism of directed recall, or else involuntary, born of sensory cues.  Conscious memory, for Proust, could never really capture the essence of the past, given that it was always by nature being mitigated and filtered—and so remains only partial or, at worst, corrupted.  Whereas involuntary

. . . . .

Schrödinger: “I know you’ve checked the box already.  But keep checking.  Trust me on this.”

I hate to sound ungrateful—but anybody else beginning to think we should have held out for “forty acres and a Dodge Ram 2500 with a good-sized winch?  Because this fencing? Fucking heavy, bro.”

tic tic tic tic tic tic tic