During moments of spiritual uncertainty I sometimes chafe inwardly with regard to the big questions. You know, what will be my legacy? How will I carve out a lasting existence that transcends this little blink of mortality? Neither art nor literature could assuage my angst.
Reluctantly, I excluded even my own male progeny, Dylan, from this equation for I cannot claim full authorship of his creation. I needed something more personal, more visceral to signal my contribution to our collective humanity. Recently my muse stumbled across a powerful answer in an unexpected source.
After several failed attempts to expunge the offending odor from my sneakers I am now convinced that my enduring personal legacy will be biological in nature. Unleashing a series of treatments with merciless germicidal deodorants, I expected my footwear to radiate the crisp, sanitary aroma of a dentist’s office. However, the end result marries the subtle floral high notes of a Febreeze with the spicy, muscular funk of an ape’s armpit. I suppose a profound message lies hidden in today’s subtext.
If you think my writing stinks, wait till ya get a whiff o’ my sneakers!