I spent half my day playing along in the rigmarole of motor vehicle registration, which ended with my bi-weekly cry. It turns out that in Colorado, you can't register your car with a bad catalytic converter because of this whole emissions testing hogwash that I was never aware of before now. Something to do with a "smog" conspiracy. For a state of stoners, Colorado is very threatened by little blonde women from Minnesota single-handedly destroying the western United States with little white Subaru's.
I hope no Denver cops are reading this because my plan is to just drive with my Minnesota plates until the car itself disintegrates and blows away in the mountain winds and back into the cycle of mining the planet for precious metals. That would be easier than getting my catalytic converter fixed and going back to the DMV. I'm not a fan of adhering to unnecessary government rules and procedures. I think they're fine for some people, but I'm just not one of those people. I've been told I'm a good kid by some folk who may or may not have been lying, and that's enough to qualify me as exempt from motor vehicle registration. Besides, I only let one person work on my car, and that's Tug Boat. That car represents my life. I'm trying really hard to keep it together, and I'm very picky about who touches my engine.
In tumultuous times like these, I resort to my constants. Internet distractions. For me, that means listening to the same songs over and over on Youtube, which is better than talking to anyone or approaching my problems with the intention of solving them. I'd rather just listen to other pissed off people bang on drums and scream nonsensically. Although lately I'm hooked on the new melodic Sawed-Off Shotgun by The Glorious Sons. I've listened to it about 37 times today.
For anyone in a pickle, that's a reassuring banger. Almost as delightful as thinking about disappearing from the hubbub of society and dying alone in a cave, just rotting away until archeologists find my bones a thousand years from now, name me something hot like Belinda, and put me in a museum basement to be studied from the era of when people used to die young and drive machines along the ground with rusty flanks and bad catalytic converters. Alternatively, I could probably settle for just buying an actual sawed-off shot gun whenever I have money to spend on frivolous things to keep in the trunk of my illegal car.
Catfish in the Mud
I went to Namibia and took a tour of Sossusvlei, where it hasn't rained in 6 years. The river is completely dried up. My guide told me that even in the six-year drought, catfish are hibernating deep down in the mud and will surface again when the rains come back and restore life to the desert. I didn't believe him at first, like I didn't believe in the mysterious fairy circles on the dunes. But now the idea of catfish in the mud has become a metaphor for the things trapped on the inside and down below that wait for the rains to give them some vigor and life. Catfish in the Mud is a pretty standard millennial blog in which I say mostly nothing in about 300 words.