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I have no idea why I’m full of tadpoles and mayonnaise. No idea why this cockroach is psychoanalyzing me. I don’t know what you’re doing with that moose on your shoulder, don’t know why you still don’t love me even after I bought you that pack of gum. I’m not sure where this elevator is going, or how I got on it. Not sure how I didn’t notice the ground beef coming out of every faucet in my new apartment. I have no idea why bagpipes and drums go so well with chainsaw murder. I have no idea what kind of sandwich I want before I commit suicide. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Containing thirty-one stories written over the past ten years, this collection chronicles the total inability of Andrew Wayne Adams to know what he is doing.

Get it here

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