s t r e aM # 5 4

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There is no way that I’m going to choose the path which will lead me toward prune juice. There are things I will tolerate, and there are things that are just things. They are thingy things. They exist to collect dust. They are not the things you want to bother about, they are just things to be things to sit on a shelf and collect dust. They are things to toss against the wall when things are not going well. They are things to toss. They are tossible tossables. You say that “tossable” and “tossible” aren’t legitimate words. I say, go fuck yourself, you KNOW what I mean when I use these “illegitimate” words. If something is tossible/tossable, then they are able to be tossed. That’s all. They are garbagible garbagables. Fuck you. You are not going to control my vocabulary. Not any more. There are things – thingy things – sitting on my shelves that are garbagible/garbagales tossable/tossibles. I know what I mean, and that is all that matters because nobody else is reading. FREEDOM (is lonely) (but that’s the price you pay). The price of Freedom is the cost of doing business on Planet Earth. Beyond that, Nothing cares. Nothing. Nothing gives a shit. Thank God for good ole Nothing. Always patient and reliable, that good ole Nothing. Yes, you can always depend on Nothing. Or, at least, I can. Fuck you, [NAME REDACTED]. What the fuck did you mean when you titled your piece of shit sequel, [REDACTED TITLE]?!? The fuck was that? Exactly WHO was wanting to believe WHAT? I am STICK and tired of wasting money at the movies. Maybe if it was cheaper. I’m SICK and tired two. Also, I’m sick and tired, TOO. That’s right, I wouldn’t mind so much if it were cheaper. The next time you want to eat with me why don’t you bring your pet cheetah along? They allow dogs, why not cheetahs, too? I want to cheetah on you. No, I don’t. I want roasted cheetah. No, I don’t. Maybe fried cheetah. Nah. Well, maybe. I do not foresee the opportunity. Full stop. There are BETTER WOMEN OUT THERE. Maybe. I don’t want to believe that. But I do. I just don’t care anymore. I want to just not care anymore. Yes, that’s it. I want to believe that I just don’t care anymore. I’ve had my moments of apathy. It is the natural state: Apathy. I don’t want to care. As it is, I hardly care. I care less and less. Everybody fakes it so well. Everybody’s cocooned. I don’t know what to do. Yes, I do: I’m going to blow up all the lawnmowers. Why can’t they make quiet lawnmowers? Why not “green” lawnmowers, for Chrissake! Why the fuck not? You know, they’ll run on batteries – NO! WAIT! BETTER: SOLAR-powered lawnmowers! Makes all the sense in the world. Honestly? I don’t give a shit about the environment. I give a shit about PEACE and QUIET! The only noise I want is my music—my classical music—and a tweeting bird or two, every now and then. The fucking bugs, man. JESUS. When it gets hot they really crank it up. I swear to GOD. Fuckin’ horny bugs and fucking lawnmowers. There are worse things, of course, of course, a horse is a horse. Like exploding bombs. It’s important to maintain perspective – particularly when you are “embedded” in suburbia – where everything goes numb. Bottom reached. 

1 August 2008

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