Napkin

It's very difficult to get a blog these days. They are scarce, rare as diamonds. And valuable. I would very much like to have a blog. On the blog I would blog. Every day I would sit down to blog on my blog. Yes, given the chance I would certainly love to verb on my noun.

But, alas.

I do not have a blog, because they are hard to find. You can't simply go online and sign up—free!—for a blog. What kind of a world would it be if you could, do you think? Pretty astonishing. It would be a wild and beautiful world if everyone of us could have a blog of our own. We'd all be so free and so very lucky if we could—every single one of us!—have a blog of our own.

But, alas.

I've no blog. Can't find one. Can't get one. And so, I write on napkins. Little, soiled napkins. I find them and I write on them. I write about how much I wish I could blog. I take soiled napkins from restaurants and bars and hotdog stands, and stick them in my pocket, and I bring them home with me. I take out a ballpoint pen, and I grab the napkins from the bottom of my pocket, and I write on them. And I take those napkins and drop them from my window. They fall into the alley behind my apartment. People pick them up and read them.

People like you. You standing there with this soiled napkin in your hand, reading.