loud, smelly gymnasiums

Well, let's give blogging a try. It might be as much fun as flogging, or juggling, or jogging, or mugging, or jiggling, or mumbling, or fumbling, or farting, or darting, or drawing, or bathing, or bamboozling, or boozing, or barfing, or crying, or crooning, or craning your neck, or massaging your girlfriend's feet, or using a flow-bee, or flossing your teeth, or baking meatloaf, or eating snails, or speaking Swahili, or mopping floors, or eating Top Ramen, or writing letters to friends who have died, or looking at old photographs, or imagining conversations, or dreaming of Greece, or getting drunk in the shade of a peach tree, or having sex under the seats in a crowded gymnasium, or imagining having sex under the seats in a crowded gymnasium, or having your photo clandestinely taken while you're having sex under the seats in a crowded gymnasium, or noticing that the cheers have gone silent in the crowded gymnasium, or staying at home for three weeks because you don't want to hear whispers and snickers in the grocery story (or at work, or from passing motorists while you're hitch-hiking, or from anonymous receptionists and clerks who all can see what you hope they're not thinking about, but they are); or it might be as much fun as writing really long sentences using words like ka-bipple or kerfluffle or curmudgeonly or sanctimonious, or using all the various shades of blue in the crayon box, or eating sand, or peeing into the wind, or walking on the beach with a dog, or playing frisbee with a dog, or petting a dog and dreaming of loud, smelly gymnasiums. I wish I were a dog.