It’s a smallpox epidemic of savings at Menard’s!
Both taste like salt, and make me see through metal.
When you’ve been hospitalized as frequently as I have, you just learn to eat the gelatin desserts and avoid all else.
How is it that we live in a world with capri pants?
Who are these people?
Contrived thoughts, who are they for?
Am I right, ladies?
First off, go back in time and get parents with good genes, not like mine. My nails look like they got tore up in a wood chipper.
Heaven has no plans for nails like these.
One horrible string of events from birth, I say. I was going to be a model, then I got short and fat. So I said, I’ll be a foot model, then it turned out I had overlapping toes. So I said, Jesus, please Lord God, let me be a hand model, then I got these nails that look like a riverbed.
Very depressed today.
I had a box of ashes of a dead family member in my house until yesterday.
Processing emotions of death brings up the deaths of other people that I really liked, and wouldn’t have minded keeping their ashes in my house.
Also, popped a hemorrhoid in a freak accident.
Bye for now,
People who do recreational drugs I’ve never heard of, diagramming sentences, parallel parking, my neighbors, finding a new house, ghosts, aliens, small towns, art made out of antlers, extremists, having to shit in a public toilet, going out in public, the glaucoma checking machine at the eye doctor, my father, my sister, my mother, my in-laws, grinding my fingers up in the garbage disposal, my head exploding, mental telepathy, mind control, bears, table saws.
Let me put some margarine and sugar on our LOVE!
I give no less than thrice of a fuck what happened. Get out of my face.
Why don’t I have any friends?
Even my shit turns spaghetti-armed Jews into thuggish — yet friendly — Latino rapscallions.
Now, how about that? Why, isn’t that something?
It seems like, from day to day, hour to hour, even minute to minute, I feel simultaneously powerful and impotent, beautiful and hideous, constipated and still my guts retch and wrench with a foaming sea of diarrhea. I could go off at any moment, but my show’s on, so I can’t leave the house.
Try sleeping at night with that.
In the immortal words of Peggy Gravel, “Don’t tell me I don’t know what Vietnam is!”
Wow, they really broke the mold when they made old Hobart Sloms.
Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars, even though playing around some stars would burn my goddamned limbs off instantaneously. It does sound fun, though.
Sick unto death.