The Real Deal

So long & thanks for all the ghoti

I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. What I’m writing. Why I’m writing. I’m just smacking my brain against the padded walls of the inside of my skull.

Thwack thwack – fucking… just be…

  1. So, what’s the story morning glory?
    • I could be like mother Mary with a blessing in my hole, I’ll give the world something they can see. Gloria, glory I will sing in the name of our lore. I carry the secret weapon of the gods inside of me.
  2. When will our story begin and end?
    • I’ve too many stories, I get lost traversing the heir waves. I forget why ore what I priori got… Benign beginnings, bewhich astart ea to gain err. Damnit. Malign magnific, forsooth we sway… WAIT.
      • SMACK THE PADDY WHACK, GIVE A GIRL A GUN.
    • A be see dei, ea effigy. Aich, I jai-key – EL EM EN..? – oh, pea! Que arr es tea, you vee. Double joyeux, wyene zed.
      • Why can’t you be normal?
    • SANE! TAME THE INSIDE OF YOUR NEURAL MEMBRANES, BITCH.
  3. Which story do I next orate?
    • Past, present, future, yours, mine, theirs, ours?
    • Sunday night, the usual nightly line up. Reading wordpress, pacing the paths and then neurotic-psychotic-disney-singing mash ups. First I scratch, then I scream, then I dance and punch the air!

When will I narrate MY life.. so that my life may begin…

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Hey guys, by the way, don’t worry about me. I just write crazy, I don’t necessarily feel (nor am I) crazy. I’m a melodramatic queen of turbulent internal screaming/misgivings. I write this way to siphon the toxicity out of my brain stem.

Fact or fiction, they’re only philosophical meanderings. If you must have me, take me with salt. As a magic fucking protective totem for spirit cleansing or something. Salt cleans wounds and adds flavour.

Oh geez – I AM NOT GOING TO EAT YOU. PEOPLE ARE NOT MY KIND OF FOOD.

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