Put That Guy Inside Some Boxes

According to accounts, many believers spend their time praising chairs and a paint color. Many people receive feedback on the spiritual schemes that lead to a free opportunity to ask archangels about the obstacle course of God’s exterior and interior presence. For example, if you must work on fighting patterns, avoid setting up new assignments elsewhere in the realm. Submit a huge evil photo of water to the head archangel, honor the form that appears.

You selected a heaven you just won’t want to color. Archangels also spend time in the kitchen, choosing to get cut. Identify a particular drink for your God.

It's Not Pink and Floral

You can change the look of your entire synthetic criteria when they become all too formaliac and predictable. Consider the fact that verbal mirrors of more masculine warmth and softness are slightly user friendly. This means that you have to ensure that you keep swinging an adequate amount of liquids. Sure, I'll take care of that right away.

Gripes aside, what a great controller.

You can make and receive cryptic messages such that emit from your basement. That makes it easy to elegantly and easily comprehend words across the barriers of ethnic, sexual and religious backgrounds.

Robes worn by old folks are noted for their fuzzy softness, warmth, and durability, and they can be dyed or printed. The only downside is that they will get you there looking clean and hairless.

TV Enforcement Character

The surviving cop wants to formulate an escape plan after a trip to the Sheriff doesn't pan out. He’s been talking to the robbers who catch serial killers. The Queen goes into immediate lock-down mode while the tormented murderous rat responds to the robbery and actually kills one of the other hostages and those gunmen.

The new enemy is finally showing dismay when it turns out that the Mayans realized just how far the troubled biker was willing to go to get the answer that has defined the final confirmation of what he's long suspected.

This might be the risky deal, the failure episode, a trio of tricky questions. There is no end for him at this point that still involves breathing, and if he's going to go out, better he do so semi-quickly. I don't mind the mild immorality.

Cranberry Grabber

Show the world your fanciest face. Blow away some whale people with strong melodies. Give love to homosexual grocery clerks. Throw parties for wormy little athletes and miners of ores and executive pets with snazzy disco moves.

The Starch Landfall

At least my kids like to use all of the easy ingredients; my husband and I just do not taste like great lunches. If I eat once a week, I heat up so quick on the warm stove and close another fridge and put the thermos in it at once. One daughter asks for the only tomato and takes it to school. My other daughter is too great in size to enjoy a 32 oz soup meal. This is still for her.

The selenodont artiodactyls of the Uinta Eocene

It's fancy anniversary dinner time for Janet and me. We sit in our second favorite gastropub. It was supposed to be secluded from wayward eyes, hidden under the impression of an old government restricted military base that had been abandoned during the second world war.

I think I'm eating rich white hetero alien eggs. I tell that to the waiter. He rolls his eyes. His armor is a living, sentient, and enchanted armor.

"God bless the real psychos in the vibrating shoes," I tell good old Janet. She trails around with her troupe of ‘fiends’, who are invisible but always on the verge of becoming flesh. The throb in her skull and right shoulder gave insight into a tangible injury, but she couldn't remember how she obtained such a thing. The drugs are probably screwing with her perception again.

Marriage is a special kind of agony. It requires the cooperation of numerous landowners across vast areas. The story itself is deliberately ambiguous.

Puffed Protein

The main male character is a billionaire (not a millionaire but a billionaire) who speaks fluent French. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree from San Jose State University with minor degrees in military science, history, and military history. Between 1994 and 1997 he was involved in a real estate investment partnership in Ohio and Massachusetts.

His interests include archaeological research on sites in Mongolia, and as a pilot he owns and flies an original World War II "recon bird." The Government no longer provides security, such as the police, either locally or nationally. He is currently active in this area and for the security of his family and ongoing business, wishes to remain anonymous. This does tend to make it more difficult to discern the key concepts.

Spirituality Means Absolutely God Damned Nothing To Me

The amphibian, it seems, has become lost in its thoughts. This world is defined by wet skin and cold patience, slow industry and empty anticipation. In a way, the amphibian is a hustler. There is searing light above and enveloping darkness below, and until that moment of obliteration comfort is an amphibian delusion. The amphibian and fabric of motion are estranged. In families, we share the amphibian fantasy.

Chay Chay

This was almost awful.

The score for the movie was really top notch. Everyone was happy when they heard it. I read on some blogs that some of the trumpets were stolen. They were the ones that sound like falling crows. They are featured heavily in the grand theme of the hero. Then there was the scene with the dinosaur, which brought us to our feet.

Being a gifted writer, Todd begins to write stories - gay stories - about another boy he's secretly crushing on. Will he reconnect with his siblings or ever overcome his aversion to finding true love? He must make a choice: be what everyone else wants him to be or strike out and be his own man. High school can be some of the best years of life—and some of the toughest.

Dirty Shirt

The group took me to the big bathroom. Even the more multiple-thumbed than I got started. Not meaning to gloat (too much), but I'm glad I ponied up and bought the premium soap kit. As it is, it is just a lot of fun and a great hidden treasure in an awesome career. It's also an excellent choice for larger strips of citrus zest or ginger. My front doors are steel plated hurricane doors. Furthermore, the illustrations are very inspirational. They are just for babies who are lousy, lame, stupid, and overrated. That's just not hyperbole, that's a messed up kid.

This Study May Be Remarkable

They modeled a job, but it's more than done. Positive economic disasters could not include the materials and non-quantitative corruption they apply to the model. Factors such as wildly optimistic pandemics, large-scale currency flows, population sources, and military concepts look like severe social emissions have digested conflict energy.

If these pages of futurist stresses and feedback are taken into account, do the things this audience deserves - such as debt or mathematically absorbed text crises - clearly address the wider perspective? The Earth's a model of negative limits. Growth can be added to that book by explaining one view.

What would 284 loops of natural authors be like?

Excitement really starts this completely

I hope that healthy bear does it just like a stupid movie. No one gives you ridiculous energy. If let out, follow the bear and be just plain literal. Things shouldn't survive out there. For the first few seasons, you attempted to play alone, safe and trying to conserve your steps. Surely the good end up dead.

Brain Heart Million

Inside a physical time, you're connecting your limitations with the dollars.

Where is that impossible knife? Our quickest electricity questions where the strong gotta find the answer, dancing into the formulas when it cuts like a world of energy minds.

You're running. You got creative equations. You push it deeper. You're burning into your life algorithms.

The Nail and Waffle

Against the old filigreed statements of loyalty, our national director is full of hungers like the hunger for tuna and the hunger for new hair and the hunger for waiting until the woman comes to him. He is fresh and papery. That's a really amazing guy I think.

I can't wait much longer myself because it's not all the wandering urges and plain speaking that I was born into, instead I have this independent spiritual regime I stick to that keeps me loud and radiating like the greatest neutron star.

I got sick. I walked to the national director's house and begged for some money. I got the money from someone and it bought me some tickets for the food contest. I won the food contest and I sold the food to some rotten individuals who didn't deserve it because they were exotic animal smugglers who fed the stuff I sold them to some tigers and parrots and an anteater. I didn't know anteaters ate bologna but apparently, yeah.

I don't know what's going to happen now. Our national director switched to pleated slacks and a lot of us plan on doing it too, but we'll wait a little bit so it's not like we're on the bandwagon, because it's not a good thing to have that reputation. People think you're sucky if you do it, so you hold off and then after the initial wave of the fad has subsided you slip into the menswear outlet and pick up some pleated slacks slyly and wear them to Bennigan's or the place with the big onion.

DO NOT TRY TO EAT SOUP WITH THIS SPOON!

Would not have all energy from the big bang passed by billions of years ago if the universe expanded from a singular central point? Is it possible that some species of spiders are SO small that you miss them altogether? That is tribal shit man! I got it as a present from my brother-in-law as a pirate DVD.

The gestural control was a nice surprise; I didn't know it had that capacity. Who is the long haired person at the beginning? Now here's a guy we wish we could take credit for. Learn how polymers hook together with the included activities. Cornstarch is used to make gravy. It's not edible on its own.

Very sweet and ambitious

There is no sugar in the meat or cheese. I couldn't stop laughing, after I spent that whole day crying. You seem to be angry. Do you have a large rusted item in your rear?

I would get a boner except for the old guy with the measuring tape. I eat a good portion of it each day on a trough-sized plate at dinner.

And, notice when the driver of the car gets in to start he is wearing a helmet, then half way through no helmet. This will especially happen if you have an old bitch like mine was. I guess I'm the anomaly in your hypothesis.

Flinging Puzzle Molybdenum Porridge Molybdenum

The soaking sensation on your scalp is because of the song we sung yesterday. It was a hot tune I thought and I'm glad we did it, and I'm even happier that we ate the big cake afterwards. I'm less thrilled about what is happening to my body now. My nerve cells are growing super-big and poking out of my skin.

It's not happiness that's happening to me. It's something more like the wounded sound of cold wood. That's why I left the garage and you are alone with the rags and dusty glass.

In a week, I will be surprised because I am enjoying the thing that is happening to me and I will be a transformed object with knowledge of the opposite. With new flesh and the kind of money one spends on nothing, I'll walk away, into slow silence.

Find me.

The Shawshank Whatever

Farmville was invented by two guys in a hammock. One hammock they share. That's okay. It was pretty strong and it's not like it was hung on a crappy pair of trees. The trees were these big beech trees that get so pretty in the autumn. So pretty. It's a good thing to pick a pleasant afternoon and wistfully reminisce about the kinds of things people wore in the past, or musical types of things one may have heard, or the way little kids are growing because of all of these exploding cells in their bodies and the thoughts they have are particularly mad.

So, one of the Farmville dudes was consorting with a truly hideous troll-faced woman who controlled a lot of things in town, like different ways people got their water or the sorts of wheelbarrows that were allowed or acceptable plaids. But the woman was also fucking a scary ghost and whenever the Farmville dude met her for his own fuckings, she smelled like ghost semen and ghost sweat as well as...

...this is kinda difficult to say...

...ghost farts.

But this was all about learning from experiences in life, so it's not like there was any weird drama or strife involved. The Farmville dude was on to these spectral dalliances, and when confronted with his mild accusations, the monstrously gross woman said that she had a lot of lust for phantoms that she had a hard time reining in. When Farmville dude truly pondered that, he understood that the fact that she would constantly fuck that horrid ghost wasn't a reflection on Farmville guy himself but rather it was just something that had to be done. Farmville guy understood that she wasn't really cheating on him when she was fucking the nasty ghost any more than she was cheating on him by eating bagels.

As you can tell, this was a really super-valuable experience for one half of the Farmville brain trust, and by sharing this story with others, he has improved the general sense of welfare among people.

VR

Ìn that room there we can get a drink called Smooth Orange, and it is good on a day when you've got less plans than usual or your ambitions are lower than smelly shit. Because when you drink the Smooth Orange the face you have becomes like gassy water and the clothes you think you own are revealed, essentially, to totally own you.

It's kind of heavy stuff. I keep the Smooth Orange in a ninety dollar thermal protection cup I got from the store in the mall where some peoples' spouses work. Good things to drink out of are important, and it's like one way you should not hesitate to spend the big money. You'll see someone who seems too much like a falling thing and you'll give them the Smooth Orange and then you'll help them feel everything about death, and understand its casual bliss. I like to do it in stiff denim.

Wilderness Worlds Against National Debt

I saw a family values video where this proud preacher was hollering something like a hoot owl, so what? Anyways he was giving green papers to a woman with good hair and glasses, not just any green papers, it was a paper with faces of bearded gentlemen on it. Either way he got a workout from that. Gees its a wonder someone did not come up with sexercise equipment, getting both a sexual and physical workout.

This belief and comfort in self leaves him unencumbered by many of the rules and regulations that most men, especially men in this country feel obligated to obey. Happily, for all concerned, by which I mean all humanity, this younger generation has already begun to rewrite many of those rules.

I love using my motorbike but it takes a while to warm up. As in it's cold when I first start using it. What's a quick way to warm it? I normally just put it under me or set it between my legs but that takes to long. I live in Wisconsin btw.

Cloud Candle

The sky is a lichen color and a breath of dry tinsel. The sky is a bed of scales and a pool of silent smoke. The sky is heavy pewter and hides from our boat.

Wet your feet in what is under you.

When you take your fingertips back from the sandstone, rub them together to feel what they have taken away. You will find that your fingerprints have been softened. This is what you have given. The certainty of your form is diminished.

Briny Wings

They're wilting, these parents. Their eyebrows fade from their faces and their inflexible bodies. They are as much a part of this residential structure as the tar of the roof and the nests of animals in places we do not look. When they were children themselves, these parents knew of wordless urgings in genital depths, early hints of that reproductive imperative that would result in you, me, and our siblings.

It manifested itself in obscure ways in the twilight time before puberty claimed these gray parents. It lived in words shouted at a tree. In the ghost imparted into a plush toy. It was a soiled ribbon pulled tight around another child's neck.

I am essentially the game of a child, cruel in confusion.

Crowbar Teeth

Dad is a robber. Full eye contact, fist to sternum, feet on the ground robber. He brings good new stuff home to us and if we break it he doesn't show us rage the way other fathers do. He smiles and hugs us and robs something else new and good. He feeds us. He teaches us the names and songs of birds.

At a family gathering of no small importance, dad gave an impassioned monologue to his collected relations. "It ain't stealing if it's honest. Bashing a man in the face and taking the things he carries is an honest thing to do. It is transaction. Maybe you call me a thug. I will wear that garment. Like all other garments I wear, it is one I procured through no small amount of skullduggery. This food you are eating, the utensils which transport it to your mouths, the napkins, the tablecloths, the chairs you sit upon: all of this has been obtained by me in the most honest way I know, by violent force.

You may say 'I don't relish sitting on another man's chair!' To you, I say: if that other man truly wanted that chair, he would have been prepared to keep it. When I rang his doorbell and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kicked him around his yard, he would have given me twice what he got. As I tossed his chairs into the back of my Isuzu, he would have tripped me, punched me, smashed my knees, anything to stop me from taking his chairs.

But he didn't. As he lay in the grass nursing his wounds, he agreed: this was a fair price."

Everyone knew all of this, but allowed him his time to speak. That wasn't all he said. He said a lot more. But we all wanted that soup and didn't care if a woman was shoved into a garbage can so we could have it.

ESPN Star Cricket

U.S. Licensed Pharmacies employ a stunning diversity of marketing strategies. We've taken note of these and with relish we present this handy guide to those which have met the most success in today's high-octane, media-rich social landscape.

Two friends converse, both seen in profile. They exchange a platonic kiss. One friend lies down, leaving the frame. The remaining friend turns toward the viewer, revealing that one of his eye sockets is sprouting with a thick growth of pubic hair.

A single plucked crow left on the doorstep of every citizen of a given municipality. When a citizen dissects his or her bird and disarticulate its skeleton, a fun word game is revealed: each bone has been etched with a word or phrase, and when placed in the correct order, they reveal an engrossing narrative which extols the virtue of a pharmaceutical which may be of particular interest to the recipient.

A hill where there was none before.

A social media campaign which saddens and confuses the aged members of the pharmaceutical marketing community, who feel that the world is leaving them behind in a mad rush to the obscene obliteration of identity looming on the horizon.

Hip hop legend Dougie Fresh and acclaimed actor David Hyde Pierce star in the buddy cop series Two Terrific Cops, which features copious product placement of pharmaceuticals. It's a proven winner.

Treated condoms as a delivery vector for exciting new pharmaceutical products.

We'll see increasing profits for a while, methinks.

Homeopathic Probiotics

Three people sit in the back seat of a late model sedan with their own special hats on their heads and their own favorite screenplay excerpts memorized. The car's antenna is adorned with the discarded tail of something mammalian, which none of the protagonists in this narrative have been trained to identify. Nobody blames them. I mean, what relevance does it have? They're total wilderness newbs and not all that into critters.

Trust me, the three individuals in this sedan have been vetted. None clutch to illicit secrets. None are eaten by guilt over past offences. None are obsessed with genitalia to an untoward degree. They're just fine, salt of the Earth type folks. We can like them and not be all suspicious.

There was an additional passenger, but I had that one removed. It looked at the sedan and remarked, "the design pattern has serious consequences not only for consumers and the environment, but also for the automotive industry as a whole," and I just told it to get out and walk away, and heeded not its woeful protests.

So, we'll have to find one more. I'll put up a few flyers and run an ad on Craigslist. Then we'll have a new one, one ready for being uplifted with the colours of glory we'll apply to its neck with the pigments we've collected during our travels.

Wall of Wind

I affix the name of a color to a single guttural syllable. It becomes something strong with scent of juniper and pinyon, built by the subliminal industry of ants.

My body stands as a stupid and humble thing, unsure whether I exist before verbal communication or after the death of language.

Hot Pink Bleach

It got humid in the closed room where the carpet glows, too humid for Apple's popular iPod media player. Grody Bob was out picking up hot pizza from our favorite local pie joint, so I had nothin' for no one to do, least of all myself. The paper was spinning all the same old sob stories and quaint anecdotes, all crammed between bleating adverts. I loosened my leather belt and slicked back my hair. I imagined the musical stylings of a jazz musician I know.

That was when I realized that my fingers were bleeding.

The editor-in-chief writes, "Hold onto your hot cola. Keep what you own inside your own radiant soul. Smile grimly upon thine seed and impart unto them thusly the Sublime Importance of holding onto one's own hot cola."

I dunno works for me

Don't Give the Confused Lord Anything

What are we selling? Why are these cables around our necks? Who put that black box on the desk? Where is that friend I knew?

I can see the screen, and a bottle of juice as well. It's all on my desktop. I use straws because I hate lifting the bottle to my lips. This way, I can just lean towards the bottle and grasp the straw's tip in my lips and suck the juice into my mouth. Sometimes I don't quite grasp the straw. I bump into it with my lips and it spins around. I call it "the straw problem" and it never fails to elicit a chuckle from Dawna Kaylee Stritt, a woman who sits at the next desk over.

I learned about preservatives from Dawna Kaylee Stritt and was horrified so that's why I drink the juice I drink. I'm not trying to impress her; she's married to her second husband, her face is unattractive, and her political views are frankly revolting. There is no reason to impress a woman like that.

How long will this pain last?

Exterminated Well

I keep things pretty well secret from most people, like I don't say if I'm going to wear a tie, or I don't say like "such and such is my favorite color." That's not in my character. Full disclosure is for chumps! But I do tell folks that I'm a sucker for that kind of music that basically sounds like an angry person at a carnival. That's cool music.

Leather on Fire

Swollen with the food you ate by the wall, you called me on the cell phone. You described your mouth's inside to me and the saliva was a runny ink. You wanted it thick as glue to shoot like bullets that harden in midair. You said you could spit at me and crack my skull. My neck jerks, my eyes bleed, my head opens and thousands of Agnostid trilobites pour out into the sunlight and immediately die.

Path to Citizenship

I go away for a sweet numbness and listen to the rising and falling cheers of some gathering somewhere below me. This topography comes blowing out of me and manifests itself on this city. All of it is somewhat less than my sickness of cynicism feels capable of allowing. Cynical, cynical, cynical tight little mass like frozen black blood, digested hair, bone flavored paper wad and clay. Ears floating on oily water. Just ears.

Put a Label on Your Experience

My finest aspiration as a child, a boy, was to be a lake monster. Not in the sea where such ugliness seems to ooze from hadean chimneys super frequently. Not in the sea but in a lake, in a small spot of water near a town, fringed with fine conifers and full of pristine little pebbles which would tickle my monsterbelly, which would skip from child hands on the surface above me, leaving momentary silver blemishes.

I would pick one child to befriend, one needy boy or girl with darkness on their brows and hunger and empty shoes. Having watched and waited, I would pick one sad moment when the child's world was like a sack of molasses and I would rise above the cool water and the eye contact would bond us.

And there would be adventures, naturally. There would be dopey sheriff's deputies to foil. Wicked land developers to battle. Bait shop owners to confuse. Victories and heavy auras of champion energy. One day, boosted with confidence and a powerful sense of self-worth, my friend would walk away from the lake forever to enrich the world with whatever the hell it was they wanted to do with their adult lives.

I loved talking about these dreams to the children at school. I rendered them in finger paint, in poster paint, in crayon, in marker, in colored pencils. When they put the kibosh on my dreams, I argued that they were wrong; in their mind they were the experts, but I wasn't happy to accept their cynical bloviating. I noted with bitterness that fairly frequently, they tended to have a habit of translating something weird into something somewhat less splendid.

That's a problem. That's a dealbreaker.

Shall We Flourish?

I make quesadillas. It is a service I provide. I've purchased the latest stovetop from a reputable manufacturer. The same goes for my skillet and the rest of my utensils, which probably doesn't interest you. Why should it? Once you taste the quesadilla I serve you, your questions about my process will be irrelevant. You'll feel a profound gratitude for my abilities and generosity.

I will, however, regale you with the story of how I obtained the unique apparel I while preparing the victuals upon which you are presently feasting. This is convenient, as it relieves you of feeling obligations of conversational reciprocation, i.e. saying stuff to me, too.

Upon Senator Hill, a lovely Lesbian Woman who drives a Dodge Ram has taken up the pastime of leathercraft. After seeing her wares at a local arts festival - of which I am a perennial attendee - I set my mind to the purchase of comfortable britches, a belt, a tunic, a jacket, and a heavy apron to protect the rest of the ensemble from the messiest of the foodstuffs with which I must contend. I've commissioned a cap as well, but this final element is not yet complete, and to be perfectly frank, I grow impatient with the excuses I hear, week in and week out.

I just really love quesadillas.

Egg One

Roll down the face. Tumble headlong down the slope of that greasy nose. Hold tight the precious eyelash in your pink fist. Feel your foot smack a balmed lip. Strike the bearded chin.

When you land in the giant's soft lap, don't hesitate to still your mind and catch your breath. Scramble down his pants. Don't lose the eyelash. If the giant's cat harasses you, there is a bazooka hidden behind a potted plant. Shoot the cat in the face and run. Actually, shoot it anyway, harassment or no. I hate that giant's cat. Hurting it will distract the giant.

Don't lose that fucking eyelash! I need it.

Succor For Tormented Fathers

There was a long night of fog and light during the final days of our sickness. In the damp heat, you slept like a sloth in the jungle time, the diffuse light rippling across your mossy integument like star fingers. I watched the fabric of my fashionable slacks undulate with cnidarian logic. I watched the telephone’s cold weight on the pressed wood bedside table, silent next to the swollen circular trace of some other person’s ice water. Like a whimsical ichnologist, I imagined the water’s entry into the patient’s body, to be greedily claimed by its cells, to quiet its sensation of thirst, and to be eventually excreted, completely alienated from the ephemeral form the glass had lent it. I knew that some small trace of that water had found its way to me. In the wild haze around us I watched you in your bed, secretly alive.

Ha Ha, I Wrote the Poem

That dog is gone. No doubt it got chased away from the house by friendly women with hot paychecks in their pockets. Those are the women who don't carry purses. And you know, that's okay. They don't have to carry purses. They like that fast-moving feeling you get with running with a sweaty brow and teeth full of fierce visions. So they don't need heavy purses. They sink battleships, and as previously noted, they occasionally chase dogs away from houses.

When I was in a funk, I sold purses on the boulevard. I knew three brothers with different knives and big antelope colored faces. I never fought anyone and I never let people insult each other. By that, I mean that I spoke up and registered my disapproval when I heard one person insult another person. That's the best you can do. You can't stop people from insulting each other. You can't stop some friendly ladies full of ancient worries from chasing these dogs away, either. You just wish it wouldn't happen so much.

Faux Pas Dudes

Lying on the car with the young woman, I was obliged to speak poetically. This is one of those things a young woman kind of expects. Even if she thinks her fella is a real dim bulb, every young woman has been given a thought by her mama that a poetic soul is in every man, and it is up to she, like a sort of psychic key card, to activate it.

I said, "young woman, I think of the pleasures of holding my breath underwater when I see your comely visage. It is my habit, when swimming in a person's pool, to hover weightlessly, curled into the fetal position, submerged where I only hear the throbbing sound of the filter pump. Don't put a pool near an oak tree because of the acorns."

That young woman wasn't too impressed, but didn't turn me away when I offered her smooches, heavy petting, and a nap. So I hope that she might oblige me with something really frisky next time!

Astute readers who are knowledgeable about my biography may look askance at this story. I was raised by two homo papas. Well, I still got to learn a lot about what young women are raised to believe. I learned it from their fag hag. Her name was Chrystol.

Snow Kone

I yelled at the boys "don't slip on the slippery leaves," but they ignored me and didn't fall down. It was stupid of them to run down a rainy hillside on a mid-October afternoon, but they did it anyway and they didn't slip. They were laughing. I wanted to beat up the happy boys.

I am a smart guy who can understand that my impulse was weird. I was angry at them for engaging in potentially dangerous behavior. I didn't want them to hurt themselves. But I wanted to hurt them.

I discovered that in my heart I want to be the only one to hurt people.

Mango Lassi Enema

It is crowded, and the only thing on my mind is new ambition. Free of cares, I desire so strongly to be the face on the comedy movie poster. Above me, a collection of words honed by a diverse assemblage of young, underpaid writers. Behind me, a radial gradient in a primary color, because it's what we do now. Below me, a roster of prideful men and women who, years later, will cut the eyes out of their own copies and beg their domestic partners to forcefully engage them in coitus.

Millions of Kisses and Good Wishes

I find a site to sell electronic products. Their products are original quality with very low price. Their products fill all demands, honorably and with zero issues to speak of. In a manner of speaking, their products are perfection for all people to appreciate. Maybe it is fit for your business, as well.

Drawer Cream

I have got to give the apology tomorrow. Tonight, I'm figuring out the best way to dress. My great dilemma is that my apology suit has a bad stain in a hilarious place, which would put the sincerity of my apology in danger of not being conveyed in full. Concocting an apology suit on the fly is not one of my strong suits, no pun intended!

I must acknowledge that I know you aren't terribly concerned with my choice of garments for this apology delivery. You are concerned with the apology itself, for the mere mention of apology inspires the imagination to concoct a multitude of scenarios, from banal disagreements turned sour to tawdry occurences which will forever stain the offended party's view of me, no matter how gracious my apology may be.*

This apology, delivered in whatever collection of garments I settle on at some point tonight, is intended for a blogger of no small influence. It seems that I, in a moment of revelry, pissed and shit upon the hood of her automobile. Now your imagination can rest, and you can sleep invigorated by the knowledge that I've done something gross to a blogger and it's crazier and worse than anything you've ever done to a blogger; Lord knows that you don't owe a blogger an apology.

*I assure you, it shall be gracious as fuck.

Grown, Blown, and Flown

Last night, we were capable hosts: preparers of enjoyable victuals, owners of obedient animals, bearers of appropriately moistened lips for the greetings and farewells it was our duty to dispense. It is one of the great collective joys of our people, hospitality. Solemnly, we set about these activities, the whispered compliments, the silent appraisals of hairstyles, the surreptitious accountings of those places where sex organs impress themselves upon garments. The slaughtering of feed stock is veiled by skilled dismemberment, traditional methods of preparation, lovely garnishes of lurid green. As we chew, gentle discourse keeps at bay our shared knowledge the great chain of commerce leading back to the moment when the strong robot finger pierced the skull of whatever mammalian herbivore lies on our plates. It's important not to use paper plates, because the blood and melted fat would fucking destroy this heirloom tablecloth.

My Goodness and Warmth

I wear the colors of a whining monarch, His most fervid protector and
holder of his trust. I change His damp linens and when He slays an
angel I am the one who salts its white body and see it entombed. For
these reasons, He considers me His beloved servant, prideswollen at
the sight of me in the distance, adorned in His good colors and
bearing His standard.

He is pathetic and it endears Him to me further. His knotty red
knuckles and quivering eyes are mine to serve and I cry for Him when I
scrub the garments it is mine to wear. Others claim to serve strong
monarchs with tight fists and unmovable hearts in their chests. I wear
my colors because they are mine to wear and I know that these others
are bad liars, bad liars who serve rulers as weak and unworthy as mine
and in their lying eyes I see the same loathing and love that fill
mine. He will be staring into those eyes as he dies in my arms and my
death will be in weeping.

Cocking

I haven't got the time today to listen to problems from all of the people. The way it looks now, I won't have time for several months, and by that time the problems will be new problems and some of them will be gone and some will be worse and I still will strain for empathy. I haven't seen evidence of it.

That's why I wear this jacket with its screwy zipper, and these glasses with their incorrect lenses, and these briefs which pain my testes, and this hat with its obviously misspelled word. I offer this of myself to those who I cannot care for, and it is payment enough. Their pity, unwarranted though it may be, offers a validation which far outweighs any effect my imaginary empathy might have.

So suck on that, haters, and please: when you inform me of the mustard stain on this jacket with its screwy zipper, be tentative and patronizing. Hold me in your fat eyelids.

Chard, Lemons, Iceberg Lettuce, and Meat Fat

Here is the shameful little one: the primary blue piglet with a cocktail sword and email account password in his fake-looking pocket. He's drawn check marks in permanent marker all over his canvas sneakers. He secretly loves the smell of a cigar. His dreams are swamps.

The reason we're walking away in this silence is obvious, is it not? As obvious as the dry yellow grass. The little telephone I carry in my pocket starts making a racket and to a distant observer--our piglet, let's say--I begin inexplicably smacking my hip. I whisper "I'm embarrased it's orange." But you hear, "Time for ass, it's on."

Now I'm in a pickle, attempting to explain the unlikely sexual congress that transpired in my recent past. I cannot reconcile the easy lapse of inhibition as our encounter occurred with the disciplined way that I normally conduct myself. LOL

Shallow Guy Eating Chips

There's something lonely living here. Everyone feels it, including all of the teachers.

I know about the teachers and the things they believe because I have a hiding place in their lounge. Ever since my early student days, the teacher's lounge gripped me with fascination that couldn't be fully realized in glimpses through the cracked door. I found reasons to stay at school as long as possible: extracurricular enrichments and playing the volunteer. I became the child ghost of the waxed linoleum.

Mrs. Linkage had me assist her with the decorations for Mr. Tolbin's retirement party. As I hung crepe paper owls and twists of tiny incandescent bulbs about the room, my breath was thick and fruity in my chest and my eyes felt heavy with tears. I also felt Mrs. Linkage's gaze upon my deliberate child arms. She felt such happiness in my presence. I was an awed child, calmly appreciative of these teachers, a small walker with gentle footsteps. There was a natural goodness in me that she never recognized in her own children.

None of this is conjecture; my aforementioned hiding place made me privy to such things. In my old age, the ache in my knees is the legacy of my crouching teacher's lounge hours.

The Ice Melting on the Hood

There are things to cling to, like the clean pebbles in the pockets of
my jackets. I have too many jackets. In the last two years, I've only
worn one of them, on less than a dozen days altogether. It makes more
sense to wear sleeves long or carry a sweater. Also, most days there
are only a few minutes in the naked outside for which a jacket might
be preferred, and those minutes are only slightly more terrible
without one. So the closet stays closed, and the jackets and the
pebbles are forgotten, dumbly clinged to with hands that aren't mine.

It occurs to me that the path to work has become wild with thorns and
tough little vines, pleading calls from birds in unseen shadows.
Sometimes the scabs and pale scars on my sun-darkened arms startle me.
I'm not getting used to them and the people I know ask if I've tried
this lotion or that salve. I don't prefer to do that, though. The same
as how I squeeze my head in red hands rather than swallow something
benign from a plastic bottle. The only things I actually treasure are
irrationalities, anyway. The way spitting makes me feel in control,
the way spitting fingernail splinters makes me feel like some kind of
victor, the way a terrible mug of coffee validates this whole
enterprise.