What you're really thinking

Blah blah blah blah love blah blah blah happiness blah blah blah blah blah heartache blah blah blah blah coitus blah blah blah blah answers blah blah blah blah why me blah blah blah blah masturbate blah blah blah blah blah chili blah blah blah blah blah cigarettes blah blah blah blah education blah blah blah blah blah blah government blah blah blah blah blah blah more sex blah blah blah blah blah taco shits blah blah blah blah blah ? blah blah blah blah black canadians blah blah blah blah alcohol blah blah blah blah bills blah blah blah blah bullshit blah blah blah blah-la la-la-la-la live for today?

A word to the wise (is infuriating)

Regret is a dirty pair of chones in the back of the closet. Might not be a big deal. Not at first. You meant to take care of it, but you forgot. Don't even really notice the stench at first. It rankles in that closed space, and unattended it spreads. First the air. The stale air soaks up the smell like a floor mat soaks up spilled coffee. Spreads on. Onto the clothes, the hanging thoughts, the trappings of your subconscious. Feel that? That's your shitty undies. A single pair making enough mess to wreck your whole closet. Before you know it, the paint is peeling off the walls and your once clean little space is a cesspool of complete and utter filth. You'll be throwing out your river shoes by the time it's worked its way into every little space. That sanctuary--your last bastion against a hilarious yet uncaring world--is rotted and wrecked.

Do your fucking laundry.

The Road

It lies before and behind, stretching into darkness and distance. Through all is the road, paved or otherwise, carved out of this beautiful barren wasteland. For those who walk it, there is no deviation from the path it shows us, because it is made as we walk it. Wherever we turn, there is the road. It runs away and away before our feet, guiding us even as we conjure it into bleak existence. The road is our path, and we are its creators, the architects of our respective destinies. Or something.

Oh! Sweet Nuthin

Dew Drops

It's never going to rain here. It's going to piddle and dribble like a 80 year old bladder, but it will never really rain. There's water enough, and enough fog to--well, a lot of fog, and the other day I even had a few drops on the windshield. That's about it. And no real surprise; if I was God I wouldn't piss on this city if it was burning to the ground.