the novel I'm not going to write

I went for a hike over lunch through the thick underbrash behind the office. usually there's a little path through, so I went around the long way intending to come back via said path, but the water was higher and I couldn't get across. I fought through very thick underbrush along the edge of this little stream trying to find a way across and tried at one point but almost fell in. I didn't. but almost. but I'm really filthy, which a nice little addition to my hating work. perhaps I will begin to wear dirty clothes to work with bad ties.

I also collected bullrush heads to see whether they'd work as either a rice or a flour substitute, and looked up a recipe for dandelion wine.

a funny thing about the walk was that I kept kind of emerging from thje thickets and seeing well-dressed people walking around, presumably on their lunch or errands or whatever, and I'm sure they thought I was either checking on pot I'd grown or stashing a body or a freakish scientist of some sort.

I'm reading some odd authors these days - Charles Bukowski and Philip K Dick. My wife says I should write a satire about working in an office - "an episode of the office, meets crazy, smart, frustrated man... a postmodern satire of society..." I think she would also be happy if I somehow made it read like James Herriott. I don't think I have what it takes to write a long thing like a novel, though. Maybe a short story. Maybe. But it'd have to be really short.