Some days the bear eats you.

Some WEEKS the bear eats you.

And while he’s digesting you slowly and stripping the flesh from your bones with thick incisors you can’t say much about it. Your body sinks into place like a well-fitted screw and you just get screwed. Am I mixing metaphors?

This particular bear wields a cordless Makita in one hand and a pen in the other. He’s actually taking notes as he fills your brain with holes. 

“Subject appropriately terrified. Showing signs of ‘throwing in the towel.’ Note to self: wear gloves next time.”

Some days the bear just spits in your face. As it dries in crusty clumps on your eyelids you wonder if it’s bad enough to succumb or if it’s just the proper amount of spittle for motivation. Most of the time you give in, because it’s easier. Inspiration doesn’t come around often, but it’s not always welcome when it does.

It’s not as if I have any suggestions. The bear is going to eat you whether you like it or not. And the days that you eat the bear are pretty damn infrequent. And he’s mighty indigestible anyway. But when you get the chance you take it because fresh bear meat is rare. hahahahahahahahaha.

FRESH BEAR MEAT IS RARE.

Did I just coin that? Google says yes. And I’m a fucking vegetarian.

Somehow all of these half-assed metaphors are making me feel a tad better about the week.