This Is The Way We Brush Our Teeth

If you just happened to crawl out of a rock recently chances are that it hasn't reached you - normal dysfunctional people like all of us hate unsolicited advice. There are those who pretend that they do of course. But those are attention junkies. They don't really care about what you say, only that they have your full and undivided attention.

Ok so I've again deflated you or someone elses only ticket to happiness. But hey really, if I wanted to know what you think I'd have asked you don't you "think"?

So now I've no choice but to give you a response right? Right. Go take your two cents and gag on it.

I've been told I blot out the sun

Not in a good way though. The princess has acquired this habit, as her own psyche is so similar yet so different from my own - where my self deprecating handling of my soul is a coping mechanism, my hope for the best and expect the worst, she just goes on blinking red lights and the alternate flashing of "does not compute" and "system shutdown" in her lovely almond eyes. Which of course comes with the verdict of proven genocide against unicorns, fairy folk and the like. I believe in magic thank you very much. How else can elected officials steal your taxes and make you vote for them again if magic did not exist?

Doesn't bode well for your writer dear solitary reader as I have to censor myself now when I used to just talk to a wall. God forbid I take the sun again and hide it in my poophole (which is where I think she guesses I hid it)

Trying to write II

So here I am still stuck in real life, unable to find my road back to make believe land and sadder still is my inability to make even those midnight runs to the sarcasm store I used to frequent before. Sucks bigtime lemme tell you.

Maybe it's because I'm stuck in a rut too. Unable to travel like I used to and stuck with my dumbass ride that I keep meaning to dress up but never finish. I really hate that, driving some battered tin can rust effing bucket.

I am trying to find my mojo and I very well can't. It feels like my prose oriented soul has gone and sawed off a shotgun, loaded it, then drank a can full of insecticide for good measure before chewing on a scatter-shot.

I find it so unfunny it's funny. That's how sick it is.