so, i’m way behind schedule on this “novel”.  i had an idea, scrapped it, starting running with another, and eventually abandoned that for a plot line created around a dream i had about reptiles and small, cramped kitchenettes.  would you like to read the first paragraph(s)?  here you go:

a fucking crocodile.  in his kitchen.  there was, inexplicably, a full grown, living, breathing, hissing crocodile, posed in what he assumed to be it’s attack stance, on his kitchen floor.  he looked at the clock:  8:46 a.m.  today was probably not going to be a good day.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

otto was a simple man.  he worked retail. he had tried community college (for just under one quarter of a semester) and dropped out, after receiving what he considered to be a lucrative business proposal from a former roommate.  $5,286 and a less than respectable rapport with local bar owners later, he accepted a position in mediocrity, which just so happened to be located in the westernmost wing of his local mall.  he printed t-shirts, hats, mugs and mouse pads, and in his tenure with the company, had become quite skilled at doing so.  he worked 9-5 monday through thursday and 10-noon on saturdays, fullfilling the required 32 hours to recieve health insurance at a discounted rate and his quota for social interaction.  some saturday afternoons he would play guitar, a talent he lacked but perservered in never the less since before he could remember.  he could play the opening bars to “lightning crashes” and not much else.  his hair was long. not dark, not light, overwhelming nondescript in style and texture.  he wore corduroys.  he drank water.  otto was everyman.  he enjoyed butterfingers’ candy bars and david letterman.  he lived in the basement apartment of a distant relative in downtown delta, pa.  he hadn’t swam since grade school, had smoked 7 and a half cigarettes in his 32 years of existance, and now there was a goddamned crocodile making it impossible for him to get a cup of coffee.