On Monday, my dog Sparky hiccupped. But it came out sounding like he had said, "Hi John." I smacked him in the face, 'cause my name's Darby.

On Tuesday, I was perusing my dictionary when I happened upon the word, 'loincloth'. Loincloth. One word. I always thought it was two. Anyway, its definition was, 'a cloth worn about the loins, as by some peoples in the tropics.' I walked outside and the weather felt mildly tropical. I walked back inside, took off all my clothes, ripped some cloth off an old t-shirt and placed it upon my loins. I went for a walk around town. Some people in cars yelled some things at me and laughed. Stupid people, I thought, they ought to read the dictionary.

On Wednesday, I dove into my swimming pool, but I had forgotten that last week I drained my pool and filled it with hundreds of highly venomous king cobra snakes. A few were still in there, slithering around. Then Sparky came out and looked down into the pool at me and hiccupped again. "My name's Darby!" I yelled as I lay amidst venomous snakes, writhing, freaking out, trying to stand up.

On Thursday, I woke up at 2am and thought I'd give the walk-around-the-block-in-my-loincloth another go. I figured there wouldn't be as many people outside at this time of morning. So I went for a walk. But it was too cold, so I came back in. I forgot the weather needs to be tropical.

On Friday, one of the snakes that escaped my pool bit Sparky. I rushed him to the hospital. But he didn't make it. I felt bad. I tried to think of all the times I had ever yelled at him. Then I realized that every time I talked to him, it was a yell. That made me feel a little better for some reason. I don't know. That was a weird day.