Philosophies from the Lawn Chair over a Beer, Sometimes More, Depending on Present Company

Occasionally neighbors will drop by to get a piece of my salad years.

I’m nobody special. I shouldn’t say that; one of my great great grandfathers was a rear admiral in the navy, but I don’t want to use my celebrity. There are enough eighteen year-olds writing their life stories, their memoirs of wisdom gleaned from months at the mall.

I’m forty-three and unemployed, which is why I have the time to write this. I shouldn’t say that either. I do say many things I shouldn’t. I do have a job, just not one remunerated with money—I do love that word, except I want to say re-NUM-erated.

I home school my daughter. She’s fifteen and could write a memoir; I hope she does one day, so I can get a new lawn chair, a nice one, the kind that looks like a coffee stirrer to the “naked” eye—not that eyes can be dressed. When you say the secret passcode, it becomes a luxurious hover lawn chair. This is a doobie day, by the way.

Why am I doing this? Why do I feel the need to beam my drivel into the night, though I usually “lawn chair” during the day? Because it takes awhile to put it down, so by the time I’m finished, it’s dark. What a silly question. Have you ever looked at that word, question?

Quest ion, or the Spanish, Que' stion?