I think there should be an international “thank your mother for not having an abortion” day.

Do you have any idea what a close call it was? Your dad was all for it, but he’s a gentleman, so he just played “what do you think” on repeat. When pressed for his opinion, he would say “I think we should k…” then try and read your mum’s microexpressions to see if he should finish the sentence with ‘eep it’ or ‘ill it’.

In the end he let your mother have the final say despite the fact his sperm had done most the work while your mum just lazily dropped an egg out an ovary like one might throw a chicken to a crocodile.

This is worth celebrating, says me. I guess, indirectly, that’s what birthdays are all about. We should just have them about 6-to-8 months earlier and acknowledge how easily you could have been snuffed.

Actually, now I think about it birthdays should have more of a thankful vibe to them in general. Like, “Thank fuck I wasn’t born in Kenya 39 years ago” and “21 years ago today I was born without a hint of cerebral palsy — that’s pretty great”.

My sincere apologies to any Kenyans with cerebral palsy, but you gotta admit, things could be better, right?

I think this yearly act of thankfulness will serve as a helpful reminder to quit your fucking whining about the silly little things.

I saw a tweet the other day — with thousands of hearts — in which some woman was suggesting that men who worry that their remarks towards women could be construed as harassment should just stay away from women.

Hmmmm. Of all the fucking things to complain about … that’s as specific as it is petty.

Are we really targeting people that worry that they might accidentally say something that is considered harassment, before we’ve finished with the actual harassers?

Perhaps we should collectively keep our eyes on the prize of actual hand-on-ass pseudo-rapers first — it’s important to see things through. I imagine there’s plenty left, and a limited supply of fucks for people to give. We have the balance them out.

Once that’s under control we can have a chat about tearing to shreds the people with social anxiety that have a hard time predicting other people’s reactions to their actions. I know I know, these are truly terrible people, but I think they should remain in the queue of people to attack for now.

I saw a big fish.

I was riding across a bridge over water that I don’t think was troubled. I looked down and, barely two metres from my feet were two big fish. Perhaps boyfriend and girlfriend. I just spent five minutes looking for a type of fish that rhymes with ‘girl’ so I could saying something like or coy-friend and pearl-friend. But I don’t think the pearl fish is well known enough. So I didn’t say any of it.

I often wonder if I could survive in the wilderness, and seeing fish like this makes me think, yeah, I could catch one of those a day. And although I think I’d gag a bit if I had to turn a mammal into food, I’d have no trouble with a fish.

And they’re so easy to catch; any schmuck can make a tide pool, and I reckon I’d work out refraction and get good a hoiking a spear when I felt like a snack.

A rabbit on the other hand, it’s like they’ve been custom built to not be eaten. And I can tell wombats aren’t tasty, because wombats aren’t extinct.

Anyhoo, this big old pair of fish would be more than enough food to keep me going for a while. (Although if I’m stuck in the wilderness … keep me going for what purpose?)

I would get myself some rice paddies, grow a cucumber and a bit of seaweed and I’d be eating sushi like a fucking king. I’m not sure where you got those soy sauce in little fish but I’d find them eventually.

It would be just my luck to discover that the really tasty fish were the hard-to-catch ones. It’s like God read the writing advice that each scene needs to have some tension. God forbid (pun!) the tastiest fish are also the most tame and stupid.

No, the best fish would be those ones that jump out of the water in the exact place where you’re not looking. There are a lot of them around my place. I was sitting on the side of some body of water, peripherally watching these fuckers jump up into the air.

They jump maybe a foot or so and I wonder why. I wonder if they wonder if they can escape that way. Maybe it’s just a simple “hey, what’s up here? Oh shit, there’s no water. It burns! It burns! But luckily some force appears to be pulling me back toward the water. There is a fish god! Poloop!”

(‘Poloop’ is like ‘huzzah’ in fish.)

I guess fish ponder the same things about humans. They must wonder why the silly humans dive into water. They can’t breathe down there. It’s an all-round bad idea.

Fish should stay in the water, humans should stay in the air. Is what we already have really so bad? SCUBA divers are just malcontents with special equipment.

I was loitering outside my usual lunchtime sandwich shop the other day (who are getting the hang of the fact that I’ve ordered exactly the same thing, without exception or variance, for the last six months) when a group of people emerged from said shop. One of them had evidently ordered an Uber. They said “there’s the Uber”, pointing toward some grey SUV. “Oh is that what an Uber looks like?” said an idiot.

Isn’t that great? She’s going to be super befuddled when she see’s her second Uber.

Oh, I guess unless the second one is a grey SUV too. And why not the third, the fourth! Maybe her whole life will come and go without her ever seeing an Uber that isn’t a grey SUV; her suspicions will be enforced over and over. Maybe her final moment of existence will the vision of a red sedan Uber being driven by a black swan through her living room window.

I saw a woman on the train that looked, in the face area, like the most severe librarian I’d ever seen. She had no intention of putting up with your shit. She looked like if Lillian from the show Frasier wasn’t so laid back. She was as pale as a ghost with a mass of black, wiry hair.

She wore an ankle-length summer dress that looked like it wasn’t pleased to be a part of her life. It was just ‘there’, you know? Anyhoo, none of this would be interesting, except that she had the feet of a Kenyan. I am almost certain that somewhere beneath that dress she had been grafted.

I wanted to take a photo but it would just look Photoshopped. Plus, I worried that if the top half of her was vampire — as I suspected it was — she would melt if I took a photo. I was in the middle of Googling how not to kill a vampire when she disembarked.

Artificial intelligence is a bit judgy. I Googled Neurotic (I got it confused with neo-erotic) and got this automatically-created card:

Suck it, Woody.

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