I dreamt that I snorted a bunch of heroin.

I was pleased because it didn’t sting the way heroin is supposed to.

It didn’t make me high, but at least my nose didn’t sting…

Who is Clint Feetwood?

I was becoming tremendously frustrated as my brother muttered something along the lines of a “Clint Feetwood” not being at all pleased about something or the other.

It was the third time in as many minutes I had heard of this Clint Feetwood.

“Who the FUCK is Clint Feetwood?!?”

Casey slipped one arm into his navy blue trench coat, then the other arm. Then he shook both arms out so as to even the coat out and barked “Clint Feetwood…”, shaking his head.

Who is Clint Feetwood? Does he come down from his bedroom at night when his car alarm blares on my street? You see, I really hate it when somebody invests in a car alarm, only to allow the goddamn thing to wail for seven minutes after it has gone off. Seven minutes is plenty of time to make a getaway, rob a store, and ditch the car, only for it to sit abandoned and screaming in the ubiquitously crisp December moonlight.

That’s moonlight some pipe-dream wannabe filmmaker will get a good three hours of, thinking it will make a beautiful statement in his non-sellout-big-name-big-producer-cutting-edge movie. Cause nobody starts a scene off with a shot of the moonlight shining down on a crisp December night, do they?

I have no interest in beating around the bush only to find that Clint Feetwood was an inside joke that I felt outside of. You should know by now, dear friend(s?) that I am not amused by impatient ideas, nor by being messed with. If there is a Clint Feetwood, and holy fuck, if there is EVER a Clint Feetwood, it would be an understatement for me to stress how important it is that you own up and tell me what his deal with.

Who is Clint Feetwood? Why did his name sound like a joke coming from the lips of others? Why, when his name came from my lips, did ears and eyes react to make me think that he is no joke? Blind faith, Mr. Feetwood. Blind faith.