Maybe it was about the 3rd or 4th round of the game of spitting over a wire just off my deck that I realized exactly how bored I am. Like a 12 year old boy malingering outside a slushie-mart, target-spitting for pleasure. And I recalled just how much fun I used to have with this blog, or how the blog used to enhance the fun I had in life. And then I shrugged and spat clean over the wire.
But it's true. Somewhere back in the misted past, I resorted to a sort of crypto-nonsense, binding words up within the absurdity I hold so dear until they could no longer lubricate the story. Like the sewn pockets of a new suit, or braile on a parking meter, or your ultrarich landlords who flagrantly dress down only when they visit you
'Nice wellies. Is your stubble mascara'd on? Pizza's held facing the other way up, you know. Otherwise I totally relate to you.'
(I hate the word landlord, I really do. What other title invokes such presumption? 'I'm the bus-baron, and don't you forget it.'
'I'm not a valet, I'm the car-tsar. The auto-crat. The fourwheeled Fuhrer. The...
And I didn't bother finishing... so what.. it's boring
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