C O O K I E S . C O M

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Us, You

For us, this is never a problem. Each of us knows what the others know. We see the same things and call them by the same names. They are all tied up in the same ongoing stories. We create reality out of the familiar and we are the ones who benefit.

For you among us, it is not always a problem, but it may become a problem at any time, for any reason. We do not know what you know, and you do not know what we know. We see the same things and call them by different names. They are all tied up in a multitude of half- overlapping stories. Reality creates itself out of the unknown and we are the ones who suffer.

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Like a Boss

Sometimes he felt that he wanted to feel like a boss. He thought it must be nice to feel like a boss.

The things he did to feel like a boss sometimes made him feel like he was a boss, but somewhere in himself he always knew that he was not a boss.

"You have to be a boss to feel like a boss. And then you would always feel like a boss," he realized. Then he realized he had a boss, and he never felt like his boss. From that point on, the word seemed to take on an entirely different meaning.

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Spiritual Procrastination

He feels a wave of good intentions rise up in him. He prays to be forgiven of his sins. He does this silently, almost in words.

The response comes immediately, almost in words. "Now?"

This surprises him. Something in him protests, almost in words. "Not yet."

The wave of good intentions recedes, and is replaced by something else.

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My Reflection

I looked at my reflection in a mirror. "That's odd," I said to myself. "It's all backwards."

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Why Bother?

"I don't know why I bother."

"Then don't."

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Occupy Wall Street

It's already occupied. You can have it when they're done.

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Let's Talk About Politics

A person says what she thinks.

"No," says her companion. "Here's what I think...."

They repeat themselves until they are exhausted.

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How To Be Sexy

It is sexy to be full of life.

Oh, look. You're reading this. You already are.

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The Abyss Yawns

"How wonderful," you say to yourself with delight. "I've had an epiphany."

The abyss yawns.

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It's Never Too Early To Start Teaching Your Kids About Gun Safety

First things first: it's unreasonable to expect us to keep guns out of the hands of young children. Let's be real. Of course you keep a revolver on your nightstand and a shotgun near the umbrellas by the front door. Who wouldn't? What you need to plan for is that inevitable day when your young son or daughter picks up one of your guns and does what all curious children do -- experiment.

My suggestion to the American gun industry is to offer incentives to get kids familiar with gun safety by the time they're old enough to read. Ranges could offer to waive fees for kids under 12. Manufacturers could introduce a line of small, brightly-colored guns that will fit comfortably in their little hands. Ammunition makers could publish coloring books that familiarize children with distinctive characteristics of different types of rounds.

This could even be incorporated into elementary school curricula (at the state level, of course). What would you rather have kids learning about? Evolution? Anti-American revisionist history? How about the necessity of a well-regulated militia? Be honest with yourself. And above all, be smart -- and if for no other reason, then for the sake of your family. It's what our founding fathers would have wanted.

photo credit

tiny killers

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George Orwell

The humble patch of earth had long lain silent, except for the wild mass of weeds and flowers that had grown nearly high enough to obscure the weather-worn tombstone from view. Then, one bright morning, the shadow of the day's news drifted over the spot where they had buried his body. And what a dark shadow it was.

The earth shuddered. Or was it him? A grey skeletal hand reached up through the soil, then another hand, then a fearsome head, with two sunken voids where its eyes should have been.

The corpse spoke in a feeble, raspy voice. "I told you so," it said. Unsurprisingly, not a single living soul took notice. The sun looked on impassively as the shadow of the news continued past the spot, drifting westward with the clouds. Orwell's corpse turned over in its grave, crumpled itself into the fetal position, and resumed its eternal dreamless slumber.

A cold wind rippled through the graveyard, and, presumably, the rest of the western world. It was the cold wind of irony.

image credit

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[s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s]

YHWH in the house. (Or, when Vampires sing about God it sounds like this).

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a little something to bump in your whip this summer

[theparisreview]

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a youtube video of a cat

via theparisreview

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Stay Beautiful

Days later, the flowers remained in their vase on the table. Her fingers grazed the petals, which had grown limp and discolored. The word "melancholy" ran through her head.

Her mother had said this was going to happen.