Hanging out with Mr (Chris) Cooper . Co-oo-oo-oo-oooPer!

That's how much fuck fish. Seriously.

Last night I decided for a second or two that I would be a writer. But now that I'm home from work I am not writing. Again, here's the best scenario I can muster. I get a ghostwriter who does all the writing for me and I, the new literary wunderkind - at age 25 - live the sweet life. Signing books, laying around, drinking Mango Lassis all day, starting literary movements. I have no idea what I am saying. Honestly. Anyway, I guess I would get someone like Michael Chabon or Thomas Pynchon, maybe Salinger, to do the writing. I'd tell them, listen Mikey, Tommy, Jerome David, I was thinking I wouldn't mind you writing a couple pulitzers with my name. The pay off is that you get to know you are good and not just your name. I get to lay around and drink Mango Lassis with the occasional thumbprint cookie. Whaddya say? And then I'd force them with knives and scary things after they scoffed. I'd say, "I'll scoff your guts up and burn them!"

Yikes.

My body hurts. And I like naps.