Talking To A Rock So I’m talking to this rock. Telling it about the beauty of the first time I saw a woman's breast. Actually it was breasts. I saw them both. I went on, because it really didn’t seem to give a damn. So I said, “Well, have you been to Arizona or Colorado or Utah? Have you seen the bazingas on those formations?” As usual, it was speechless. Have you taught any teenagers recently? It's probably easier talking to a fucking rock. I don’t expect much from a rock. Maybe I expect too much from adolescent half-humans. And when I say half human I am reasonably sure there is half that’s human. Not sure what that other half is though. Maybe the time is not right. Maybe what I have to say is too novel. But then, there’s one with bubbles, with light, with an energy spraying aura that makes me say, “Yes, I love this.” I remember Mr. Smith, my 12th grade English teacher, I was a sponge. Mrs. Johnson, 11th grade grammar, Hmm, maybe I was a rock.