wha A o
What's to be said, hello dolly. Can't make sense of comprehension right now because all I want to do is get lost in beats, tones, lipping words from the inner-part of the stomach, instead of lost in the moths. Their invasive wings in my house make so much sense. Why I don't sweep out the cubbards and demolish their nesting ground, I'm not so sure. Laziness is pegged as the reason.
I am a degree. One, perhaps seven, of obsessive compulsive. Can't everything be in line. Damn New Found Glory on the radio. Eww indeed. What encourages tastes to change? Revolution in decision and/or circumstance. I'm no longer satisfied with Zeilsteen Radio, switch it up to classical. Not even then--can't I escape back to Ms. Ruby with the Clap as she sings Tracy Chapman. We were talkin' bout a revolution in my most delicious of rides. She makes it nearly enjoyable to be a commuter. However at the end of this week, I'll be vivisected by wheel forms. Drive to the university land, where knowledge and intellect are commodified, park the car in the grid-lock, and bump the beach cruiser to the hall of Cheadle. Cheat-lll. Avoid $420 some dues to park my car within walking proximity of the office.
The office. Is there any way to avoid that concept in my future? In the office we effort to bandage the non-consensually sexed. Bureacratically why of course. It's not necessary to share details, because no one really has patience for those. They say it's due to lack of time, but really, their ears are corked with cement in the mornings before coffee and the poor-man's shower. Corked, NO, not corked, LIFE stupid lady. Did you know we have moths in our cubbards and they even have tried to share my pillow, not subtly, they zip right down on to my Beech, dark red pillow case and act as if they can stay their because they are... they are... they are, mothy!
Today I feel like seeing someone cry. Just wrecked with distress and passion. Unable to see past the tsunami of tears shredding their barely unpeelable eyes-lids. Even if it be me in reflection of some streaked mirror, because when are things impeccably clean unless your neurosis force you to be a house-wife and engage in an intense affair with dust. Dust, dear sir, is my nemesis.
Work it, man. Let your freak-flag fly.
I am a degree. One, perhaps seven, of obsessive compulsive. Can't everything be in line. Damn New Found Glory on the radio. Eww indeed. What encourages tastes to change? Revolution in decision and/or circumstance. I'm no longer satisfied with Zeilsteen Radio, switch it up to classical. Not even then--can't I escape back to Ms. Ruby with the Clap as she sings Tracy Chapman. We were talkin' bout a revolution in my most delicious of rides. She makes it nearly enjoyable to be a commuter. However at the end of this week, I'll be vivisected by wheel forms. Drive to the university land, where knowledge and intellect are commodified, park the car in the grid-lock, and bump the beach cruiser to the hall of Cheadle. Cheat-lll. Avoid $420 some dues to park my car within walking proximity of the office.
The office. Is there any way to avoid that concept in my future? In the office we effort to bandage the non-consensually sexed. Bureacratically why of course. It's not necessary to share details, because no one really has patience for those. They say it's due to lack of time, but really, their ears are corked with cement in the mornings before coffee and the poor-man's shower. Corked, NO, not corked, LIFE stupid lady. Did you know we have moths in our cubbards and they even have tried to share my pillow, not subtly, they zip right down on to my Beech, dark red pillow case and act as if they can stay their because they are... they are... they are, mothy!
Today I feel like seeing someone cry. Just wrecked with distress and passion. Unable to see past the tsunami of tears shredding their barely unpeelable eyes-lids. Even if it be me in reflection of some streaked mirror, because when are things impeccably clean unless your neurosis force you to be a house-wife and engage in an intense affair with dust. Dust, dear sir, is my nemesis.
Work it, man. Let your freak-flag fly.
posted by mangostoneman at 9:51 AM
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