8 year olds, dude.

If you haven't had the opportunity to see our place, to call it a cornucopia of horror mashed unceremoniously with childhood, fine art, and beer. You can see Jack Nicholson as depicted in the Shining on the wall from the front door. There's a solid red animal skull on a shelf in the studio.

All of this I owe to my adequate friend and roommate, Neal. You never know what you'll find. I'm STILL finding stuff in public areas of the house, like "where did that COME from? Who owns/makes/wants that?"

Example: I'm walking through the house a couple of days ago, something catches my eye. No, its not slinkinstein, its not even the arbitrary map of the U.S. I say to myself, "I did not just see a miniature harpoon. I do not live in a reality where tiny things try to harpoon things, and I do not live in a world of 8-year olds with their action figures. Continue forward."

I did not.

I couldn't let the curiosity go, I couldn't keep this veil of denial over my world. If this is the world, so be it.

Confirmed. Harpoon. Miniature.

Matt, still staring at it: "um. Neal?"

Neal: "Yeah man?" and comes from the studio holding a pen in his latex-clad hands. He looks like some sort of sick surgeon and I rethink the entire prospect of letting him know about a sharp thing.

Matt: "Is that a harpoon?"

Neal, face lights up and he turns around and goes back to the studio: "Yeah it is! It belongs to [Jason/Freddy Kruger/insert horror villian here]!"


This is my life. It's not a life with 8-year olds, its not a life full of mythological shark-hunting fairies. Just a Neal for a roommate. And trust me, that's enough.

By the way, Neal, if you read this, there's a Prison Break action-figure/collectible set available, but Linc has a lazy eye, I think.