A Dirty Ripple from the Space Case

Space Kays, I don’t know why I like her so much.... a former user of coke, K, alcohol, and quit them all cold tofurkey.  She still smokes to take the edge off. Goes to sleep early, ritualistically, despite being in a prime of life (29).  My own chronic mental fatigue is keeping me down…It’s hard keeping sexual energy pent up.  Too bad I’m not for sale.   Separation of church (body) and state (soul).  In God We Trust (despite faith (or lack thereof)). 50’s broken.

                I lost an entire day…let me figure this out, it’s Saturday, I missed Thursday…I thought Friday was Thursday. I woke up, stomach a mess, and went out for Greek breakfast with Sister Kay. She’s been on Bennies (Benadryl, not Benzedrine) for sleep and anxiety and ordered her eggs over Benedict.  Home, my gassy roommate is in his room listening to some obnoxious acoustic ska sounding garbage without drums, I’m easily irritated today it seems. 

“Verba vana aut risui apta non loqui” – Vain words such as those that cause laughter should not be spoken?

With a high sense of superiority, a socialist panderer, he goes away, out communicating competitive judgments and making moves like a haphazard knight dancing with a lascivious queen.  Well-well, what have we here?  Less a confession than a series of outings, getting sick alone, getting sick of being alone, but happy and calm at home, alone, today.  High and write-y again on the couch, mushrooms, marijuana, and new Animal Collective.  What else is new?  If I believed that I were capable of making action profitable today…I’d rather believe in the Sabbath.  Because even God needs a break.  Little me, what more dare I do?  If I could further human life…breaks would still be necessary.  It’s good to not have to talk for a while.  Conversation is tricky some days. (28.35 g/oz conversion. No trouble.)  Not at it again.  “Not another tit!” said the boob, (but I want it!) If I want the boob, I have to learn to think like the boob.  Imitate the boob.  Act like the boob. “Be the boobie, blue-foot,” avian encouragement. All in vain, for vanity, promotion of an inescapable aspect of life in human nature, with a body, God’s holy vessel, sanctified in essence ethereal, manifest in His mercy, Christian Dadaist.  Work hard, play hard, and rest a lot.  Jack Garratt, mind opening soft as a door (glabrous at least!) Holy anti-venom! Ethanolic embrasure! Out! Out! Stupid human, good Spot! Ouche!

               Soldiers slaying others for others anon
                For some sick political sense of sanity
                For some tortuous delusion held aloft
                For unknown martyrdom, worshipping
                fetishist, won’t you ever give your idols a rest?

Buy a Buffalo map.  Become territorial.  Be aggressive. Assert dominance.  Maintain control.  My fault is in bottles like Butters’ compassion sauce, come now, thanks to Randy.  Trying to get to Parker’s on South Park, via construction detour, for hipster fish, and denied.  A dangerous-looking woman, sexiness to me. Alas, I am but a little man with safe little insults to divine justice (I think they’re safe…) Once the Liquor Quik’s in, I should be fermenting close to 20% and extracting 160 proof.  Again it doesn’t take long to define, converting is a way of life for a Christian, building foundational followers, church of Scandals, royal we rise and fall forever.  Back home, my body wants to move, but my head wants to stay, sensing disturbance like some dirty ripple in the force.  (There will be a Ted talk on public beheading later…)  Will the warped way I see the world now reflect its warped visage back upon me should I go?  Will my sickness infect?  Once I feel well again…bene…I’d call my spider sense tingly.