Thumbs

I would like to blog today, but I awoke and found I had no thumbs. Instead of blogging, I think what I should do is go out and look for my thumbs. They could be anywhere. They could be on a plane to Mexico. They've always wanted to see Oaxaca, because they are fond of howler monkeys.

I, too, am fond of howler monkeys, but can't just take a few days off to go to Oaxaca to see howler monkeys, to live among the howler monkeys, to pick bugs from the fur of howler monkeys—not like my thumbs. I have responsibilities. I have a job. I need to be at work, and I can't go carefree to some Mexican province to camp out with howler monkeys like I don't have a thing to worry about.

I will most likely get a call from my thumbs. They'll need money to get back.

My thumbs—such romantics. They like that song Pink Bullets, when the singer from The Shins sings: "Over the ramparts you tossed/The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers/Tied to a brick/Sweet as a song/The years have been short, but the days were long." And sometimes, my thumbs tie flowers to bricks, and toss them over fences. And then, they hitchhike back home.

Until I find my thumbs, and have a chance to blog, perhaps you could go here:

this is the link to follow.

where you will read an interview with Todd Hasak-Lowy, a writer who disputes he has written a depressing book.