So I�m walking my dog, named �Skip�. It�s one of those dogs with a big spot over it eye, small, loyal and feisty. The type of dog that you�d normally name �Spot�, but I name it Skip to flaunt my unconventional genius, yeah. But this isn�t any normal dog. This dog is genetically enhanced. It�s a super pet; it doesn�t shed, it doesn�t poop, it doesn�t even raise it�s leg on fire hydrants. Hell, I don�t even have to feed the stupid thing. It�s the perfect dog.

So I�m walking my dog, named �Skip�, and five ultimate fighting champions jump me from behind a bush. Well, okay, they might not have been UFC champions, but they were the sorts that could have been if they wanted to. You know the type, with big muscles that made their skin look like a sack full of melons.

They tied me up, put me in a big bag and hung me from a beam in a garage that smelled like Budweiser, and used me as a punching bag.

No, scratch that.

I�m a world record breaker seeking to break the world record for stairs fallen down without dying.

I am a sack of bruised and beaten shit.

I haven�t, but I feel as if I�ve been awake forever. Sleep is something I see movie stars do, much like true love and beautiful genetic pairings. It�s romance, it�s chivalry, it�s altruism, it�s the warm little bug that keeps people from pulling the trigger on the planet. It�s an ideal, it�s not a thing.

But of course I slept, not too long ago, even. For hours, really, I think. And to top it off, I was tangled with warm caring arms, what more could a person ask for? Well, you know, beside world peace and the perfect genetic pet.

Two phone calls today. Come in to work tonight; don�t come in to work tonight. The time between those phone calls was enough to build an empire and watch it crumble through corruption, which is to say, a few hours, just enough time to make me anxious enough about not getting any rest to not get any rest. Not enough time to jump into my white white world, not enough time to care.

The haze has descended, the trails start. Time for bed.

-G