Today I want to watch a TV show about pheromones and how they attract human beings to one another because of being soaked through the skin like sunlight. I’m sure it will teach me why sometimes I have animal urges to lie with homeless men or unwashed strangers or that is the same thing. I will look for this show on Discovery Health channel.

Today I would like to find a show that features my dog looking up at me expectantly. I will observe the ridiculous cuteness of my dog, and how she raises up her little face, a bit of her tongue hanging out pink and forgotten, and how I say her name sweetly, mentally urging her to please not stand all the way up because: a) I will not pet you, b) I will not feed you, c) I will not let you outside. The show will not show the parts that include me, just my POV camera focused on her face and how, when she looks up at me, I feel extremely powerful and conflicted. Conflicted because part of me wants to kneel, put her head in my hands and rub my face all over her soft one, and the other part of me wants to kick her a gaggle of times, making her yip and cower and collapse and then I would do part one and she would still come to me for affection. Because that is power, yo.

Today I would like to find a television show that explains the thoughts of the baked potato that has been sitting on my kitchen counter for a day and a half now. Maybe this show would be on the Food Network. “Thoughts of a Lone Baked Potato”. I believe the thoughts of a baked potato would differ from a raw, uncooked potato. Somehow, I think the raw potato would be very Neanderthal in its thinking and speech patterns, and the baked potato would be like, Einstein or Stephen Hawking. My belief, and what the show will confirm, is that baking a potato sparks dormant synapses in its starchy fibers, rendering it intelligent. When I see this part of the show, I will scratch my beard reflectively…my thoughts going to perhaps the hundreds, nay, thousands of baked potatoes I have eaten throughout the years of my existence. I will remain numb to these thoughts however, because the realization of knowing I have eaten thousands of intelligent, rational, cognitive baked potatoes would have me taking a knife to a delicate wrist, or perhaps eating an Ambien sandwich. Either which way, I’m sure some of the thoughts of the baked potato that has been sitting on my counter since Saturday night would be as follows:

-Just fucking eat me already and get this over with.
-I miss Fredrick, Stephanie and Ruggerio.
-Sob. Sob. Sob.
-Nice PJ’s you ugly fuck.
-Your kitchen is a filth factory you cunt bitch.
-If I had hands I’d stab you with that beer bottle.

Anyway, it would be a good show.