I was born without a shadow.
My parents were distraught. They spent a great deal of money on lighting to help bring about my shadow, but to no avail.
When I got older, I was approached by people who wanted to sell me a shadow, but the cost was prohibitive.
I like to tunnel to the center of the Earth. I use my hands. I don’t care for shovels. Shovels give me blisters.
My hands are great scoopers. And they’re fast. They move at the same rate as hummingbird wings.
All total, it usually takes me an hour and fifteen minutes to an hour thirty. That includes a five minute rester.
I’m fond of these trips because the center of the Earth is a good friend of mine. We talk for hours on end.
The other night we talked forever about radishes. Neither of us likes them, but we can’t help purchasing them when we go to the grocery store. We can’t get enough of their pinkish glow.
I asked the sky, “How did you get your job?”
The sky said, “I sent in my resume and went through a few interviews. I shared about past jobs like when I was the space inside a Del Monte string bean can, and then the space in a 1987 Ford Aerostar minivan, I even included when I was the ample empty space inside your skull.”
I said, “No wonder you seem familiar.”
I just finished the 21st draft of the yours truly Brooks story memoir.
👍 I’ve printed up four copies and I’m going to distribute them to well thought out appropriate places.
🐁 The first I’ll drop off where the field meets the forest. This will allow the creatures from both worlds to read my book. Or as I like to say, from the mice to the bears. 🐻
🎲 The second one I’ll set down on a folding table at the Soak-n-Suds laundromat in Ottumwa, Iowa. I have a lot of fans in this charming city that also like doing laundry.
🔄 The third one I’ll drop in my recycling bin because I really like to recycle.
🗽 The fourth one I’ll leave on a bench on 59th Street in Manhattan. It’s a bench right next to Central Park that a lot of publishers sit at for lunch. I’ve heard this is how J.D. Salinger got A Catcher in the Rye published.
I remember “quiet quitting” when I was a serf in Minsk in 1749.
I’d just finished digging a mile-long sewage trench, when my feudal lord told me I had to cut down two wheat fields by noon.
I sighed and mumbled, “Oh boy, I can’t wait to get to that, your majesty,” as I dragged my scythe on the ground, purposefully dulling the blade.
A bunch of years ago, I spent some time in the Himalayas, and learned how to walk through walls.
I went to a particular guru who specialized in this rare skill.
Not because I wanted people to think I’m amazing. I just happen to have a fear of doors. Particularly the knobs.
Previously I’d gone to a therapist to try and overcome the problem. But she said she’d never heard of anything that strange.