On a weary Monday.

I would genuinely like to have the energy to write a full-on post right now. I really would. I've got several things on my mind - one thing in particular regarding verbal processing and events in my and others' lives at the moment.

But I had bad sleep last night. And a long day at work. And a lovely dinner in a lovely home. And I just booked a goddamn houseboat.

So I'll hope I can write tomorrow, even though I should definitely make cat food. And I'll bid you guys goodnight for now.

And to two people very dear to me who are going through some rough times, my heart goes out to you, and my arms are always open. Thinking of you, guys. Wishing there was anything I could say that could make things better.

On my spirit animal.

So I have a spirit animal. I'm not really into the whole pagan belief system, but as a writer and a general nutcake, I'm fond of symbolism and a general sense of connectedness to the rest of the universe.

Of course, one doesn't just choose a spirit animal. According to the interwebs, a spirit animal chooses you - perhaps it shows up often in your life in a condensed amount of time, or characteristics of the beast manifest itself in your behavior. To Pericles (his own spirit animal being the rooster), the defining moment is when the animal speaks to you in a dream.

Now, the Floopness had been calling me Catfish for years. It's a nickname that arose because when I forgot to shave, my exceptionally scant beard would start poking out of my cheeks like whiskers. Perhaps that's why I'd always been fond of the regal bottom-feeder, and that's why it was on my mind as I went to sleep the night of my second bachelor party.

And maybe it was because I had ordered my wedding band with the word 'Catfish' inscribed on the inside that day, or maybe it was the fistful of mushrooms I'd eaten, but the catfish came to me that night. I was underwater, but not drowning. It was dark, but I could feel the riverbed beneath my ass. And out of the shadows came a fish, face broad and widemouthed, whiskers trailing from its cheeks like tendrils in the night. And he spoke, in a deep, rumbling voice that filled the waters around us.

"It's cool, man. It's cool."

And that was it. My brain moved on to other dreams until Zev stepped on my head to wake me up. I felt no change in who I was or where I was going in life. But I had a spirit animal.

And does it suit? I like to think so. I like to sit in the shadows like Batman; I like to devour the things that people have forgotten. I like to lie, cloaked in murk, watching and feeling the world flow over me, around me. And when I act, I like to think it is with purpose and alacrity, sure and powerful. I would probably be delicious in a cornmeal crust.

We all draw connections where we want to see them. It's in our nature, our attempts to make sense of the world around us. And things like this are like astrology; it's fun to think about, and it has exactly as much impact in our lives as we allow it to. Perhaps there is a deeper meaning to it, more likely there isn't.

But still, there's a part of me that looks forward to lying lazily on the banks of the Mississippi, belly full and eyes glazed, ears half-listening to street jazz and people, watching the world go by with one thought in my head: "It's cool, man. Everything's cool."

On losing someone.

We don't talk about it, I guess.

The big stuff, yeah, of course. The obvious stuff. It comes up from time to time, maybe with other people they left behind. Moments of commiseration, remembering them, maybe, or just talking in vague terms and ideas about how we feel.

But we don't talk about the little stuff. The things we keep around, the things we wear to remind us of them. The conversations we have with them in our heads when we're alone, the times we curl up in bed in the afternoons, when no one's around, to cry.

And it's because when someone dies, so too does your relationship with them. And that relationship was unique, specific to the dynamic you and you alone had with that person. You can describe it all you want, as loudly and often as you want, but never, never will you be able to make someone else understand what it means to you.

And so we don't talk about it. We sit in our memories, trying our best to remember what it was like. Afraid, always afraid that we are remembering things differently, incorrectly. Wondering how much of it was real, and how much we've made up in the intervening years.

On a compliment.

Today, a customer told me that I "move like a New Yorker". That I moved faster than she'd ever seen, cycled through tasks rapidly, and talked to multiple people at once without breaking a sweat.

That might have been the best compliment I've received at work yet. I'm getting all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

On muh.

There is no reason on Earth I should be this tired after the lack of amount of work I've done today.

For serious.

On Scotch eggs.

Boiled egg.

Wrapped in sausage.

Breaded and deep-fried.

That's all a Scotch egg is. Served hot or cold, solid or runny, it's an age-old bar food and breakfast snack from across the pond. Deceptively simple in its construction and execution, but still, so many factors to consider.

The egg must be boiled if its shape is to hold, but chilled to avoid overcooking. The sausage layer cannot be too thick, lest you risk uncooked meats in contact with the egg. The breading must be golden-brown, not burnt to a crisp while the whole thing cooks.

And when eaten, what a symphony these three elements compose! The toothsome crunch of the fried, the juicy runoff of the sausage, the tender bite of the egg. Should you choose soft-boiled (as I always prefer), you are absolved of a yolky mess if the white tears, for you have a shell of sausage and fried to contain it.

Situations are never just as easy as adding each element together. It's important to remember how each element interacts with another. Orson Scott Card once wrote that writing a new character wasn't just creating the character itself, but understanding how that character reacts to the others. That two characters are really three, that three are really six. It's what makes a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Whether you're changing up a recipe or writing a story, thinking of a new hire or getting a new pet, think about not just what brings change, but the changes it will bring.

If you want to think big, start small. And maybe grab yourself a Scotch egg to mull over.

On being a part of something.

There's nothing quite like it. Me, I'm pretty awesome. I have little doubt about that. But I am so much better when I'm part of something bigger than myself.

Tonight, High Point threw a party to celebrate the wholesale division in the space it'll occupy. And it was fucking incredible. It's impossible to not get caught up in the energy of something new, even if I know the dirty secret behind it - that the next few months will be grueling and stressful for our fearless leaders.

It will be brutal. It will test us all. But goddamn if I wouldn't have it any other way. I will play my part with every ounce of earnesty I have left in these bones, and fuck all if we won't turn out on top.

Cheers, fuckers. I have a future again.