don’t laugh, it’s not funny…
well, it’s back to partly cloudy on Thursday. I’ve never been one to enjoy half of something. I mean, what good does half a triple bypass do you? you can’t really be swift when you’ve got half an idea of what the fuck you’re doing. and nobody can accuse me of being half wrong. or half-assed. I know there’s a point to this all somewhere. and, if I’m not careful, I’ll need some band-aids when I find it.
feels like maybe it’s time for another supplemental sabbatical. one of those moments when I’m walking down to the inconvenience store & I’ve forgotten at what point the clock passed the baton over to AM. there are some cigarettes under the counter giving me that glinty big-eyed look, like a carcinogenic puppy dog. I chuckle at the thought tickling me behind the ear: who’s at the end of the leash anyway? obliviously, I’ve reached another culdesac of complexity. unwittingly winged by a fleet of projectile philosophical potholes. again, the grueling golden rule: EVERYTHING HAPPENS AT ONCE.
fuck physics - Murphy’s Law rules!
I’m once again a sacrificial lamb on the altar of circumstantial sodomy. well, well…if that last passage didn’t throw a funky-monkey wrench into your digestive plumbing, then maybe you should read it again. why is it so fucking impossible to find a spotter for the turgid weight of existence? is there a such thing as a trustworthy accounting advisor when it comes to your karmic credit plan? how can you read between the lines when they’re all blurred & snaking full circle around the burning building? how many ?’s does it take to fill up an empty subsistence?
ANSWER: it only takes one bullet to put a period at the end of a skullfuck.
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