Stare into the Boose….

I Boosed Mr. Boose today, not intentionally, but I did. I’d got ahead of myself, somewhat, and I meant to apologise, but what I actually said sounded like an accusation of sloth, directed at Mr. Boose. When will I get my foot out of my mouth?

That hair thing the other day, too, when I was on about haircut-botherers and mask-protesters, I didn’t mean to condone such behaviour. I meant to condemn myself, because with the wrong influences, the wrong voices in my ear, I could see myself being like that. I’m weak-willed, compliant. I’ll trade anything for mercy. I might think freedom ends where responsibility begins, but tempt me with safety, and I’m Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I’m also Mel Gibson on an answering machine, Mel Gibson at a traffic stop, the worst. Anything to avoid pain, really anything.

So I Boosed Mr. Boose. I said I was sorry, but who knows what he thought? Who knows what the Booseboss thought?

I wonder if Boose has a name for me, behind my back. If he vents to his friends when I get up his nose. I’m like one of those brain-scrapers, y’know, for making mummies, up noses all day, and nothing good comes of it.

Here’s a question: is it possible for stomach acid to creep so far up your nose it gets into your eye sockets? It’s just, my heartburn’s been extra-annoying this week, and my vision’s got worse. I thought there might be a connection, or maybe I’m reading too much. Anyway, I feel pretty sorry for myself, which is why I’m all whiny.

Maybe I should Boose Boose some more. Boose him on purpose. Boose him out the door. If I could make him look lazy enough….

(I wouldn’t do that, but look. I just thought it. It’s like I said, with the hair thing: I could be a nightmare. It wouldn’t take much, just a little incentive….)


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