M.I.G. Boston operative Brian shows you how to make Kirschkuchen, just in time for those ripe cherries.

With a large scalpel, the diener makes a Y-shaped incision in the trunk, the arms of the “Y” extending from the front of the shoulders to the xiphoid process of the sternum. From there the incision continues to the pubic bone.

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• Tomorrow my cello recital will be over and I shall still be alive

• If this flopping goldfish feeling in my chest is not a heart irregularity that kills me
• I know the music, the recital will go fine.
• Playing before other people can be a source of pleasure.
• Even if I make a mistake or two, no one will notice as long as I manage not to grimace and shake my head.
• Probably my hands won’t sweat, and even if they do, that just makes it that much easier to slide my fingers up and down the strings.
• I will remember to breathe.
• I will remember to acknowledge the audience after performing this time, and not flee the stage blindly.
• My new cello will sound so fucking hot, especially following a bunch of cute little kids sawing half-sized Chinese instruments in two.
• I will remember to breathe. I will relax. I will not tremble noticeably. And even if I do, I can sell that as vibrato.

So the cello duet is beginning to sound a bit like music. The prospect of performing at the recital no longer feels 100% like a looming execution. Now it feels like standing on a diving board blindfolded, not knowing if the pool is empty, full of water, or full of water snakes. I’m saying, it could go either way. We rehearsed the piece several times, five or ten times, and it sounded different each time. A couple of times it sounded fine. One nice thing is, when I really crank my cello, it sounds great. It’s not a bad instrument I have. My old rental cellos were like asking a girl to dance and she stands up and has a cast on her foot. This one is like being at a party and everyone is funnier and more charming and you’re wondering why they invited you, and will you ever be that funny.

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Do you ever wake up in the morning feeling like a pale nematode injected with radioactive dye and squeezed flat between two microscope slides?

On my planet, that’s feeling good. It’s like, ah, kick back between these slick slides baby and feel the warmth of that radioactive barium, no worries, nothing.

A friend loan me success tapes. CDs. Success coach yak at me on commute into work. I think, give it a chance. Give it a chance. What the hell, give it a chance. Breathing, affirmations, power dude. I sit down at work feeling a new state of power and hope, and open bottle of mineral water and spray myself good. The secret to doing that, is when it happens, you get it down low, below the keyboard, otherwise the tech guy comes in and says, show me this keyboard that’s not working and he opens it up and sees the liquid and laughs at you and how it smells like nacho chips and pringles.

So, I’ll listen to the full series, but eh. Plus I miss getting to work and having no memory of driving through the woods or seeing any deer.

But wtf. Give it a chance. It’s an experiment.

On my planet barium dye is like an electric blanket.