Carb Loader

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George who has a ketchup stain of his left cheek, an old one, not so red any more, but brown, who strategizes chess games in his head like an intel chip, who’s hair is auburn Tuesday, and sandy Sunday, is the string theory boy, is the dirty cloths stuffed under the bed, is recycled hinges on a new bike in the garage next door. He loads up on crackers then crashes.

George wrote out plans for a water fight, so he could beat the big kids. He instructed each kid on the block where to go, like a queen ant. The battle tactics were enviable by American admirals and the feat was like VE-day.

George, will be enlightened soon, will jump his unicycle from rock to rock like a frog hopping away, will go to Jordan soon, for school, come back the same though, with an array of business ideas to present. An expert on oil policy. George once got a glass of water and a deoxygenizer from an old shoebox, tried to make a home-made hydrogen bomb.

George has focused, has never given up, has never changed his mind, has left the yogurt on the sofa. It may stay there for a week, meanwhile six others have been scattered around the house and forgotten. George, who used to not do his homework, who used to wakeup in the middle of the night and play computer games, who used to run a cult on top of his shed, designed a flying lithium vehicle on a scratch piece of paper with Newton’s laws and lost it but didn’t care. Will design another tomorrow, better.

George who limped, and laughed and choked, wore three shirts, red, white, and grey almost like the flag of the country he analyzed tax laws of, grew eight inches in eight months and broke his knees, and set booby traps to pour water on whoever. Learned quickly. Has changed. Worries about the environment, talks about the gilden age and electric cars, invests in funds, plays the cello, and the electric base, same thing, still carb loads, saltines are the favorite. George still has that crusty brown mark on his cheek.





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