Superhero Diet

3:00 p.m. rise

3:05 Mountain Dew while on Insta, X

3:45 tiktok

3:50 another can of Mountain Dew, vape

4:05 cup coffee, vape

4:15 tiktok

4:16 Mountain Dew, vape

4:30 tiktok

4:54 tiktok

5:05 tiktok, X

5:11 Mountain Dew, vape

5:30 grape soda

5:45 tiktok

6:00 CBD to take the edge off the day

9:00 start commenting on tiktok seriously

10:00 THC

11:00 Mountain Dew, tiktok,THC

11:30 tiktok, etc.

12:00 commenting on TikTok, X

12:05-6:00 a.m. THC, coffee, vaping, Cheetos, vitamin C powder, continuous pornographic movies

6:00 bath tub - Mountain Dew, Lindt chocolate balls, Popeyes chicken leftovers

8:20 sleep

─────────
Inspired by Hunter S. Thompson's Daily Routine and Le P. Photo by Fred Ni.

Le P

Dinners out with my aunt and cousins in the early ’80s are memories that linger fondly. Eating at a restaurant was a rarity for us—my then 33 year-old single dad with three kids under the age of 12.
     It was woody, dark and cavernous with tacky saloon doors and an over-powering aroma of gravy.
     I barely remember the dinners, but I do remember the desserts. Holding my cafeteria tray, I would stare in awe through the finger-smeared plexiglass at the deluge of choice. Mostly jellos of various artificial colours with perfectly placed globs of chemical whip cream.
     Ponderosa. 

Inspired by Voss. Photo by 2womenwithapast on eBay.

Voss

Wrapping up the company, we needed some expenses to offset our sales, and so I’m sitting in the Harbour Sixty steakhouse asking for just water.
     “Sparkling or still, sir?”
     And although I’m about to indulge in The Most Expensive Meal Ever, part of me is hanging back at Swiss Chalet with my mother, who always considered beverages an unnecessary expense when the water was free and, figuring that “still” is just fancy talk for “tap,” makes what I think is the most frugal choice . . . and ends up with 800ml from an artesian Norwegian well and another $12.00 on the tab.

Inspired by A Causality Dilemma on Roncey. Image by Voss.

A Causality Dilemma on Roncey

A couple cans of beer
A tablespoon of fishy blancmange in a tepid yellow sauce
A potato pancake
A small bowl of beets
2 playing card-sized slices of pumpernickel
And a sliver of apple pie . . . $82
And the music. My God.

That’s 41 words and coincidently my share of the bill. 

I will now leave the remaining space, where fifty-nine words should be, for quiet self-reflection over my most recent money piss-away. What came first? The ridiculous concept of “Small Sharing Plates” or the entitled foodie-stooge willing to pay $16 for a pickerel quenelle the size of a Queen olive? 

Inspired by A Postmodernist Hundred. Photo by Noblige.

A Postmodernist Hundred

First Fred goes away and takes a pass on his turn. Then Nancy does, and I’m unexpectedly due to post next on the Corpse. But it’s Thanksgiving (Canadian, that is), and everyone’s visiting, and I’ve also got some work to finish. Really, I’ve no time, nada, to drabble, but I hate missing deadlines, and it’s only a hundred words. So, what should I write about? Someone suggests AI, but that’s depressing. I consider doing one on Trump, but he’s even money or better to win, and that’s truly depressing. So what’s that leave me? Three, two, one. There. I’m done. 

Inspired by circumstance. Image by Laura Chick.

Pride & Prejudice

The Church Lady on Garden still hovers.
     I brought her mixed nuts but she refused. Another day she offered me $5.00 and politely asked to buy her a “medium black coffee with a raspberry danish from Hot Oven Bakery.” She was that specific. She rejected the sugar. And implored me to take away an unopened bottle of Polish grape juice.
     I was humbly and sheepishly reminded that everyone can have a preference despite their life circumstances. During this weekend’s delivery, I truly wondered how her body continues on, but it does and so does her will, as she asks when I’ll be back. 

Inspired by Thanksgiving.
Photo by Wendy Whelan.

Did he fall or was he pushed?

Just as I suspected: trees can control when they drop their leaves . . . and maybe even if. In fact, it appears they don’t so much drop them as push them away. Of course, I base this entirely on an observation of the single tree in our front yard, upon which, after all its leaves had fallen this year, I noticed a single dead, dangling branch with every leaf intact. They were also all dead, of course, but still sticking fast. The tree had probably wanted to get rid of them too, but couldn’t.
     Is there a metaphor here that I’m missing?

Inspired by The Return of Little Gerry. Image by Image Creator.

The Return of Little Gerry

L.G. is 14 years old.  He grew quickly, then left home to live with Angelika when he was six. This summer he returned to us because he was feeling poorly.
     “He's better,” I said to her. “You should take him back.” But she refused, so he lived outside.
     The fall nights are getting colder, obviously he had to come in.  But now he’s a hefty sixty pounds, and it’s very hard for him to get up the stairs, thus we emptied the back room.
     For a plant.
     We’re squished like sardines. Gerry got an $850 chair to keep him company. 

Inspired by Mums. Image—Can I pee on it?—by Laurie.

Courage 2

A spring evening in Krakow, a long lineup at a local restaurant. I invite the elderly man behind us to join us at our table. He is friendly, his English halting. He was an engineer and once lived in California. I ask how, in communist times, he could move to the United States. He explains that he built a radio transmitter for Solidarity during martial law. When Radio Solidarity was busted he escaped and lived in exile until the regime fell. All this in an unassuming, almost shy voice. You must come visit my house, he says when we part.

Inspired by Courage in the face of authoritarianism. Photo of the Solidarity memorial in Warsaw by Ron Thompson.

Mums

I so want to buy those overflowing pots of mums. Lots and lots of them to bedazzle my house with yellow and russet. But they don’t last long and then I’d be stuck with dead flowers and too many plastic pots. Instead, I try to notice them. To appreciate their ephemeral pop of colour in the Autumn sunshine. To watch the trees in their glory and bear witness when the last of their jewelled leaves fall. To be fully present when the world turns and nature succumbs to November’s relentless grey. To be still hopeful a cleansing snow will follow.

Inspired by Urban Escape. Photo by Nancy.

Urban Escape

How to escape the urbanity of artisanal beards and authentic gym-made muscles by working the land, working the earth then be rewarded with callouses, whole body aches, trickles of blood—which sound like discomfort, yet are still more tolerable than ails garnered from a desk job because it makes sense to wince when branches of prickly ash whip across my face or wild rose thorns jab through clothes into skin whereas I can't solve the mystery of why my lower back aches from sitting in front of a computer. Unlike purchased authenticity, the real thing often makes you bleed.

Inspired by La feuille d’or. Photo by Fred Ni.

La feuille d’or

Dear yellow-orange leaf, there you blow.

It pains me to see you, such resistance I have to your change. 

I know you will flood me with warm days and cool nights. 

With sights and colours that leave me in awe.

But on this sweet September morning, I don’t want you to be there. 

This hazy breeze will soon be no more. 

The childhood freedoms that recirculate through our veins will recede again.

The serious Fall and fridged Winter, they twinge my heart. 

You will fall dear leaf but you are not dead.

Resting in a deep sleep, awaiting your rebirth.

Inspired by Out the Window. Photo by Wendy Whelan

Perchance to Dream

I woke up this morning dreaming I’d just won the lottery; even though I can’t remember the last time I played it for real. I dreamed myself photocopying my tickets (just in case I lost them) and I got to wake up wondering how I was going to spend all the money I’d won . . . all of which I took as a sign, especially since the jackpot hadn’t been won in a while and today was the day of the draw. My premonition even told me how many tickets to buy.
     Wouldn’t this have been a better story if I’d actually won?

Inspired by Beatitudes. Illustration by Bryant Arnold.

Beatitudes

Because Julie gave him honey, he blesses her bees.  He also blesses her, and if I'm outside he blesses me too. He gives us a set of magical numbers and a task. Last time it was, “Complete what you started!” So, I cleaned and organized my office.  Once he shouted, “1-1-1-1!” I checked my email: 111 unread messages.
     Julie, Angelika, and I are his disciples and welcome his daily affirmations. After he passes, will his image appear in a Dr. Oetker pizza? Will we hang tiny shopping carts around our necks as symbols of faith? Is this how it starts? 

Inspired by A Woman Rebuts the Minister of Virtue and Vice. Photo of Drugstore Jesus by L. Leclair.

A Woman Rebuts the Minister of Virtue and Vice

You say God is great and we are all God’s creatures. Yet you treat us like we are God’s mistake. 

     Consider what you can see of me. 

     You cannot tolerate the shape of my body because it excites you.

     Nor gaze upon my face because it enamours you.

     Nor stand the sight of my hair because it arouses you. 

     Now, you silence my voice because it tempts you.

     Oh, hate-filled little man—a woman is not a living vice, a mistake.

     You blame your weakness on women and stone us for it. 

     Assuredly, God knows His one mistake was you.

Inspired by Say No More. Photo by Wakil Kohsar.

Out the Window

No seatbelt, cool night air from open windows, lying on the backseat, the rhythmic flicker of yellow street lights seen through closed eyelids.
     From the 504 on King, workers spill out from office towers, pent-up energy free at last, buzzing, clustering, weaving—a pub patio awaits.
     Sky watching on the way to Grand Bend, clouds part, a ray shines down like The Ten Commandments, wind turbines on farm fields silhouetted against a pink twilight.

Along the 401, the wild flowers in the ditches—a meditative blur of purple, white and yellow. So much life even in the dullest of landscapes.

Inspired by Passenger. Photo by Zoteva.

Passenger

In the dark, I try to think about something else
and not think about Rocky in his dogbed
coughing and settling
coughing and settling

If I could replace Rocky’s heart, he would still be he
If I could replace his lungs, he would still be he
If I could replace his cloudy eyes
his insensitive eardrums
his shattered knees
he would still be my Rocky

His body will fail him but his body is not who he is
His body is an old car, running down
If I could just open the door
take the passenger out
keep him safe


Inspired by Misko and his Sister from Another Mister. Photo by Fred Ni.

Say No More

You whittle me down with your snide remarks.
Sub-terrain, I’m surfing now.
Always something to say, to sear me, to expose me.
To make me cry inside. 
You say you’re sorry, it was just fun, but we both know. 
It’s your judging ego.
You think you’re clever and funny.
But you’re a gaping hole. 
Like a dead star, with no light to give.
Combusting of toxic narcissism.
You’ll play nice again for a short while.
Say the right things, taking secret actions. 
Sell yourself a bill of integrity. 
But buying rotting goods. 
You’ll live in denial and die there too. 

Inspired by Like Cats and Dogs. Photo by Joachim Schnürle.

Like Cats and Dogs

I liked cats, but she liked dogs. A real dog person.

     And it showed.

     She tried so hard to be happy, all the time. But when something did go wrong, she was the first to apologize. Just not to me.

Even if she thought someone had screwed her over, she’d still go out of her way to make everything right again. Unless it was me.

     She practically begged for approval, but not from me.

     In all her relationships, she was oh so happy just to be part of the pack. But in ours, she made it clear who was Alpha.

Inspired by Misko and his Sister from Another Mister. Image from some random YouTube video.

Misko and his Sister from Another Mister

Where are you, my old friend? I looked for you in all your favorite spots—Mom’s office, in my puppy bed by the window and even downstairs where the scary roundy-round-soap-monster lives. I wanted more games of Peek-a-Boo, ’Round the Chairs, Under the Table, Over the Lazy Brown Dog. One more drink at our water bowl where I'd pretend to be a wolf, and you a lioness.
      Just one more snuffle. Maybe even a scratch.
     I was your Owl and you my Pussycat on our Pea Green couch-Boat. I’m glad I kept you warm while you sailed away.

Inspired by Sister Warriors. Photo of Willow’s last night by Laurie.