I'm going to start every sentence with I'm or I. I probably didn't need to type that. It will be apparent.
Wait a minute. It doesn't start with I'm or I. Wait. Not I'm, I or It.
I am groggy.
My eyes are heavy and my mind is silent. Excluding this dialogue.
And the music.
Streiht Up Menace. Compton's Most Wanted. Fresh out of high school, never did I wonder...that the motherfucking hood would take me under.
I subconsciously protect this boomerang. That's the exact reason it is sitting here. Not hung up. Not in storage. Sitting on a file box in the study.
The garage is probably a better place for those file boxes.
And the boomerang.
I've never realized that's exactly why this boomerang is sitting next to me.
When is the last time I took the time to properly contemplate an item? Whatever it is. To sit and think deeply about an item? To learn something about myself from this contemplation?
Thank you doctor to which I am trying to schedule a zika test. I am learning a lot about myself and this boomerang.
Grandpa used to have two boomerangs from this artist. Maybe it was three. No. It definitely was three. I'm surprised I forgot that. Grandpa never bought one of anything. So why would artistic boomerangs from Australia be different?
I broke the other two boomerangs thirty years ago.
What is the purpose of a boomerang that isn't intended to be thrown? Is its only purpose in our lives to be art? Never to be thrown?
What is the point of that?
A boomerang should exist to soar through the air and return to you. Exactly like the cartoons. Exactly like the cartoons. I shouldn't have to move. Just throw the boomerang and wait for it to return to my hand.
Exactly like the cartoons.
No one really wants boomerangs as art. That's why Grandpa kept them in the garage. They weren't hanging on the walls. Just like this one isn't hanging on my wall.
It is a boomerang.
Throw that bitch!
That's exactly why this boomerang is sitting on a file box. That's exactly why things have improved around it, yet there it remains. Unimproved. Not being art. Not being a boomerang. Being emotional clutter. All because it was never intended to be thrown.
That's why Grandpa's surviving boomerang remains in purgatory.
Useless relic born from fear. There it sits.
I'm taking those file boxes to the garage. The boomerang will have to be dealt with.
Thank you doctor to which I am on hold waiting to schedule a zika test. Thank you for helping me work through this.
I know what I have to do. It must be thrown. Just like its fallen brothers.
For its fallen brothers.
Is this a boomerang or isn't it? I'm going to find out. If it is marked to die, then it will die a glorious death. Not rotting uselessly in the study.
Thank you doctor to which I am trying to schedule a zika test. I have had time to work that kink out of my life. I have boomerang peace of mind. Peaceful mind. One that does not have zika. Nothing to worry about.
What a relief.
Pick up the fucking phone.