100 candy-colored, acid freaked-out, monkeys.

Remember, I started out as an English Major...

I've sometimes thought that life (specifically my life) is like a novel.

I've read lots and lots of novels.

When I was much younger, life seemed sort of like a Charles Dickens novel. Lots of colorful characters, multiple plot-lines, little surprises along the way. Nice neat ending.

Later it seemed more like a Kurt Vonnegut novel. Time travel, circular time, sequences out of sequence. No clear cut ending.

Which then morphed into Philip K. Dick land. Unreliable narrator. Reality as fog. Bizarre happenings. Time slips. Paranoia. Justified Paranoia.

And now I'm convinced that there's a room somewhere, a room with 100 monkeys on acid and they are madly typing away on old Remington typewriters. Our lives are the resulting output (the rambling, shambling chatterings) of 100 candy-colored, acid freaked-out, monkeys.

The monkeys are having the time of their lives...