Getting dunked on, minus the subsurface fracture

Attention deficit disorder is not a myth, nor is way too fucking busy to adequately navigate one’s particular existential dilemmas syndrome.

In other news, I’m 2-1 and developing the “hoarse coach” voice that may be the exact opposite of the world’s most powerful aphrodisiac. Remember that sitcom in the eighties with the bald dad who coached and had a family of like 12 kids, two of whom I seem to remember being red-headed twins who thoroughly confused my little seven year old heart? I recall this TV show with mixed feelings, as it seems more and more likely that nothing I remember of it actually happened on the show, but is instead projected onto a memory through whatever unconscious machinations happen to be at work in my head at this moment. Mnemonic reality being a blank slate upon which we deposit particularly salient, momentous color streams from whatever palette we’ve come upon, is what I’m saying.

I like Allen Iverson and I’m not saying that just to distance myself from the middle-aged sportsfan establishment. He’s like Mighty Mouse (I almost wrote a ghetto fabulous Mighty Mouse, but that seems very pre-Lewinsky second term Clintonian Good Times era, which is not what I intended. If anything, the AI of the last seven years has displayed more than a modicum of self-understanding and self-as-misrepresented-media-icon-understanding. Plus dude is an ankle-breaker with balls as big as [insert large spherical objects]).