October 17, 2006

This Is What I Do

Where was today? My frustration is so muddy with incompetence that I could just be unabashedly bashed by the boxer goddess of happiness. Wain. Wain eddywheres the entire day like a saggy pair of wet trotsky trousers. What good do we do when two do naught for two? Frozen about the southern quandrant's delicacies, I was out there for a good couplet of 60s, and why? Wee. For the initially forced, next bewildered, then lucid, and, after, beleagued glut of belly coughs interpreted by a few slavenly lows to be the oft malnourished spotted popsicle lizard collared laughter.

When I finally 'got' home, I ate in the shower, and continued grazing off both tiers of a closed toilet.

Y'ever hear of the part in Moby Dickles (because what's the likelyhood anyone's read the entire book) when Ish Ish is in bed (wait, that's crunched right into the opening chapter, or so, me thinks, yar) totally snuggle muzzy and completely submerged under leagues of handstitched, whale-blubber encrusted quilts save for a solitary, periscopically big toe tentatively exposed to the frosty atmosphere of the room? No?

Tonight was exactly like that, except I was so fwigid (with grief, time, maddness death rain of tundric oblivion; choose the best from the afore, or turn the computer over and write your own answer on the back of this testputer) that, when I burst onto the scene at stage left, I immediately (after the normal watering the can parade) slammed all the arctic windbill hatches, pumped the steam shower full mast and proceeded to huff my own exhalations for the following five hours.

Current personality is rosey-cheeked psychonaturopathic atypically crooked-necked, stooped-back lurch of a thirsty soup for the bowl.

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