The Silence Now Defines Us
Case in point, the beginning of this entry that had Emily Dickinson references, that had talk of orgasms and my leaky facial orifices is now gone to the electronic winds. Damnit.
You don't have to believe, kittens, but you get the shit-kicking nevertheless. Invisibility doesn't cause the fist of destiny to be any sweeter when it knocks you hard across the jaw.
Your eyes are my soul. You can turn lead into gold, I know, I crossed the line. Mimi, I know, you're a gold mine.
I have your CD, Stephanie, entitled Dick and Uprise. When it is sent depends on when I stop listening to it.
At any rate, I'm sick in the head area and taking medicine is making me pleasantly loopy. I'm having delusions of grandeur while my lower lip starts to crack and crust. I will get everything done. I will read Black Boy and Henry IV, tomorrow. I will write my journal entry. I will not slide off the edge of the earth and be eaten by the giant tortoise who so graciously transports us all to the edge of existence. I wonder if we could send Bill O'Reilly over that edge, let the snapping man meet the snapping turtle. A grand, cosmic showdown. He's a man
we could clearly do without and turtles, no matter their enormity, not matter their Atlasean scale of responsibility, need to eat.
He may be a little dry, and not have the usual heart the tortoise is expecting but I'm sure he could find some sweet meat, unsalted with use, inside that bastard's fat old head.
I am very overwhelmed, but I'm taking it one brick to the temples at a time.
Time to steam out my nasal cavities, catch ya on the turtle's flipside.
