"Beautiful dog, Dachshund right?  It have a name?",
that is what I would have said to you
in hopes of sparking a conversation
in hopes of learning your name. I honestly
don't care about the dog's name at all, but
you have nice hair, and hips. They mesmerized
me while you walked, your dog, away
from me. I never said anything.

That's how long they say it takes to become an expert at something.
That is one hundred ninety-one years or seventy thousand days
if you take one hour per day, one day per week. Twenty-seven years
or ten thousand days if you take one hour per day every day of the week.

I have been living for one hundred eighty-five thousand nine hundred fifty-two hours
or seven thousand seven hundred forty-eight days,
and I am no expert at living. At the rate of twenty-four hours per day
every single day we all should be experts of living after four hundred sixteen days
or just over one year of life, but this is not the case.

All of this breathing, and I am no better at it then I once was.
Sure my body is efficient at all of the things a body should be
but that is not living. Living is waking up in the morning
with the smell of fresh dew and a lover's sweat lingering in your nose.
Living is that taste of freedom that creeps into your mouth whenever
you sense a chance to try something new. Living is holding
hands, and sprinting headlong into the horizon.

Living it being scared, but for all the right reasons and living is
being proud of the results. I am no expert at living. I have yet
to meet one, and we have people on this earth that are over one hundred
that is eight hundred seventy-six thousand five hundred seventy plus hours
of living and still no experts. Yet still I search for the ten thousandth hour.

My mother always used to say things, still does I just listen less.
Bits of advice, good stuff, that she is just a real bad example of,
"Don't bite your nails", while hers were bleeding. "Don't pick
your scabs" meanwhile she was covered in bug bite shaped scars
and generic band-aids, the don't stick kind.

I always had to have short hair, and be clean shaven
because she hates ****** hair and thinks that boys with long hair look queer.
To be honest, I like my hair short but I grow it out to **** her off
and I'm always scruffy but that's just because I'm lazy.

She always told me to "treat people the way you want to be treated",
meanwhile she was rude to the girl at the counter and talked **** behind everyone's
back. We had a talk about this issue one time, it involved a lot of screaming
and a line I half regret saying,  "Mom, I believe you're the one that
taught me "if you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all"
so why don't you take your own advice and shut the **** up".
Ever since then she has tried awfully hard to be nice,
both to peoples backs and to their face.

That is one thing I've always liked about my Mother, she tries real hard
and loves even harder. She says she is proud of me and glad that I took
her advice to heart. But there is one thing my Mother should have taught me
something she should have mentioned "do as I say not as I do",
guess I just had enough common sense for that one.

There is a place I can go to in my mind that makes no sense,
not a lick of it, not even to me. And I thought it.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes some sense is made
there's occasions.

It's like mental poetry in a way from free form to blank verse,
a ballad of ode to shakspearean haiku. There are so many
styles, types, and formats but all of them loose, or strict.
A rhyme scheme, or maybe not. There's occasions.

My mind is full of loose connections, detailed connections, high voltage
connections, synapses. A taste, that flavor, a smell, so enticing, and then
it all just ends because I got bored, Hey there's occasions.

On my first ever date with my very first girlfriend my Dad played a song
I do not remember the name of it but I remember the chorus, probably
because he sang along. It was the most embarrassing thing sitting in the
back seat, holding hands, and watching my Dad squirm around to the beat
singing "If you like my body and you think I'm ****, just reach out
and..." I wanted to die. She laughed and told me my Dad was funny.

That night taught me something, as embarrassing as my Dad can be,
and as irritating as he can get, even though I ignore his jokes 80 percent
of the time because I've heard them all a million times. My Dad is funny,
and I don't think I ever want to be with someone who can't see that.

Even though he is unable to see at all in the dark, has never quit smoking,
can't seem to correctly button a shirt and has worn loafers, for as long as I
can remember, he is a good guy. He has odd taste in music and he's a
morning person, but overall I wouldn't trade him in.

He's a quiet guy. My Dad opens up to me when we go on long car rides,
we sing stupid songs and tell each other jokes and we have conversations.
This is why my Dad is perfectly welcome on any of my dates.
Just to drop of us off, of course.

Dear, all other men who use public restrooms.

Why is it, that every time I go to use a stall in a public toilet
there is **** on the seat? Lets set aside the fact that there are urinals
on most every wall for those of you who only need to take a quick
leak and would like to do so in the upright position.
Let us also set aside the question of why you did not bother to
lift the seat into the upright position.

Let us instead talk about aim, now I am a man myself so
I can see this issue clearly.  Unlike a vast majority of you guys,
I don't think I have ever watched a full game of football, and
I am confident I could sleep through the entire baseball season
without batting an eye or asking the score.

Surprisingly, this does not hinder my aim
it is steady and true. Would a bullseye
at the bottom help the rest of you?

Now there are times, I know, that are more difficult
maybe you're drunk, or tired, or just having an off day
and you happen to miss. In these cases there is a simple
saying "If you sprinkle when you ****** please,
be neat and wipe the seat". The saying is juvenile
the meaning is not. For those of you who are now confused

There is this nifty paper keep on easily accessible dispensers
inside every public restroom. It usually even has perforated
edges, in order to help you tear it Hercules. Woman use it
always and you do too, when you ****, I hope. So now is the time
to grab a *** of that stuff and wipe away your insecurities,
for the rest of us.

Sincerely, a Fellow Man

How the **** am I supposed to know
what you are thinking? Speak up.
I can't hear you.

Dogs can't even hear the frequency that you talk at.
The human hearing range is from 20 Hz to 20,000Hz
and you my friend don't even register. No amount
of amplitude can make things better.

And here you are thinking you can tell me
what to do? Just who the **** do you think
you are? What's that? Speak up.
I can't hear you.

Here just take this ******* microphone
you need it more than I do anyways,
and just in case you were wondering
we are through here. Hear that?