da agency

i've been thinking about a career change or a new job or a new venue or a new habit or a new something to invigorate, stimulate, jolt my life out of a routine that is not at all bad, my life, it's just got too much predictability and i somehow can't totally resign myself to that. then, tonight i took myself to a movie, the good shepherd, and now i think i should try to be a spy. if you know me you probably think i'm not so good with secrets. but really i am. very good. exceptional. and i am so unlike the folks i know who work for the agency (i actually know some. or used to.) that you'd never suspect me. or me. or me. and i sorta wanna move overseas.

meantime, i burned my hand last night taking garlic bread out of my ma's toaster. and it occured (or occurred?) to me that that will be a signifier if i become a spy and get killed, you'll be able to identify me by the scar on my right hand, kind of perpendicular to my thumb, about an inch long. or the scar on my forehead. or the one under my lip. there's one too on my right knee and if you look very close, one just to the left of my left eye, from where i scratched off a chicken pock (pox?) before i knew that's what it was and thought instead 'twas no more than dry skin.

got to go to sleep now, dreams of espionage before me.

i forget that this is public and feel a twinge of embarrassment at what i writes, and then i thinks, who cares? surely not the nihilist in me.

anyways, if a blogger confesses to adultery or assault or grand theft auto, but nobody's in the forest, did that tree truly fall? i ask yuh. and yuh. and yuh.