I entered the sweepstakes. I lost control. I became beautiful. I charmed a queen. I defied gravity. I moved mountains. I bowled. I wept, mourned, moped, and sped about town in a convertible, progressively irascing the gendarme until I was charged with exhibitionist speed. I billed my ex-wife for lost consortium. I filled a prophylactic with water until it was the size of the bathtub. I let a trapped bird out of the house. Wren, I think. I felt ill. I felt better. I say. I’m alive to everything, consequently alert to nothing. Bully, my mother would say. I wish I dressed in light white linens through which my pink skin could be seen by the natives. The county constabulary has a gym, and all constables weigh 300 to 400 pounds each. I wish I were a redheaded Fort Worth millionaire ten times. I’d have a good truck, jewelry, ironed jeans, neat house, docile wife, decent daughters, bushy eyebrows, pithy maxims, damn nigh aphorisms now, and very little trouble except possibly nagging prostate.
