I've been told that I'm full of it.

The epic poet Homer (Simpson) once said:
“I’m a rage-aholic. I just can’t live without rage-ahol.”

As YOU, my only reader pointed out, my postings of late have taken an angry turn. That’s because soup has turned me angry. And by angry, I mean a tightly wound ball of white lightning and rage that destroys everything in its path. And by tightly wound ball of white lightning and rage that destroys everything in its path, I mean a 5000 lb. bowling ball made of barbed wire and razor blades that’s been lit on fire and thrown down an alley of quadriplegic orphans on its way to smashing a house full of puppies.

And by that I mean I’m tired of canned soup. There is no variety that will cast crepuscular rays of soupy sunshine back through my gullet and into my totally ripped stomach.

This should not be a surprise. When I started this Journey, there was no guarantee that it would take me to a shiny, happy, special place where Lynyrd Skynyrd plays live 24/7 and monkey servants feed me wine from a lambskin bota bag. In fact, I was prepared to go into some of the darker depths of my soul along the way. In doing so, I hoped to gain more of an understanding of myself and my place in the Universe and perhaps become a better human being.

Not really though.

But I am tired of canned soup.