Mondays oh sweet Mondays. I know it’s Tuesday, but my mind is still on Monday time. Why? Well, let me fire up the iTunes, release the groove, digest syncopated rhythms, then divulge all that was my Monday.

Have you ever seen a flying squirrel, pissed, intent on revenge for interrupting its dumpster dive? I have. Yesterday morning after posting my blog, dwelling on my visit to my good friend Orthopedic-Steve, checking a few comments on my blog, more contemplation about my good friend Orthopedic Steve, I decided to offer my garbage to the dumpster-god named Keeping It Green Garbage Removal. I was dressed in shorts; my short sleeve shirt showed no signs of wrinkles or breakfast staining. The sun was shining, the birds hadn’t shit on my car—the morning seemed promising.

No one else was at the dumpster, so I could make my garbage offering with all due respect and reverence. When I opened the lid—Rubbermaid like material—the demon squirrel attacked. I’m no stranger to opportunity; my martial arts training needed some serious practicing, so I threw down the lid, mostly likely knocking out the demon squirrel. Swift of foot and with impressive catlike quality, I moved backwards—positive I shit myself—tripped over my New Balances and proceeded into a stuttering-stepped kata (choreographed patterns of practiced movements) that ended with some serious asphalt hugging. I waited. All my old injuries Orthopedic-Steve fixed, checked in with serious complaints, but no refusal of movement. My left knee, the object of Orthopedic Steve’s new affection, remained stubborn for attention, making it difficult for me to stand—something I didn’t want to do for fear of bowel abandonment. But stand I did; shit I didn’t...

I’ve known my good friend Orthopedic-Steve for twenty-five years; my injuries endowed his children’s college funds; my medical insurance occasionally sends him on cool trips to Austria and Sonoma Valley. So after he laughed at my road-rash, checked out the new bruises coloring my skin, offered his condolences to my scuffed-up New Balances, reminded me of his way cool trips to Austria and Sonoma Valley, he asked me if the demon squirrel survived my martial arts prowess as he injected Euflexxa (one of the hyaluronates used in viscosupplementation—indicated for the treatment of knee pain in osteoarthritis of the knee) into my left knee. Damn that needle—it hurt. To make me feel better, my good friend Orthopedic-Steve comped my visit and suggested I get something to eat, as Euflexxa can make you somewhat sick. I asked if he was buying; he laughed.

McDonald’s isn’t my restaurant of choice. But I stopped, ordered some weird chicken sandwich and a small Diet Coke. I just wanted to stave off nausea—now that’s an oxymoronic thing to do considering the quality of fast food cuisine. But that’s what I did. After parking my car, noticing about thirty people congregating by a blue van that advertised on its side panel pool cleaning and home laundry service, I happened to catch sight of what was capturing everyone’s attention. It was a large—extremely—possum clinging to the top of a trash receptacle. More trash stuff? Was God joking with me? Did McDonalds start serving hallucinogenic mushrooms? Intrigued, I watched as iPhones recorded video, took pictures, or texted way cool messages about possums. Even a young police officer was there. Perhaps the possum was in violation of some ordinance. Then I saw it; the porssum raised its tail, drooled  and gave birth: I counted five young possums dropping into the trash receptacle. I thought of Andrew Zimmern’s show Bizarre Foods, remembering how he once ate possum, declaring it kind of gamey, but a better choice than raccoon. Convinced I was about to make Timothy Leary proud, I drove home before the world’s colors morphed with perceived noises, sending Jerry Garcia’s spirit to offer me some calming weed.

One inside the safety of my home, I checked my blog, but I couldn’t read. I waited. I waited some more. Finally, I called my friend in Peoria, MiddleagedWomanBlogging, and confessed my confusion. MAWB is wise beyond broadband. She calmed me down with insight; she inquired about my Sunday night’s dreams: I told her I didn’t fall asleep until Monday morning, but I did recall dreaming about poop. She laughed an infectious laugh. We talked a bit more, but my knee was hurting—she was jonesing for a Netflix arrival via the mail. We hung up, both laughing.

Now, Apache Savage also figures into this only because I private messaged her with details about the demon squirrel and the birthing possum. I didn’t tell her about the poop dream. She interprets dreams; She laughed via broadband. She’s got a serious cool laugh going for her.

Tired, I decided that perhaps I could get some sleep. My inner-therapist that sometimes helps me through my brain farts and playing minor chords with augmented 3^rd notes, diagnosed me as hopeless. My real world therapist didn’t return my phone call.