Of course I avoided acting the part of Lawnmower Man -- three more chances & lack of blood n' guts (just add haruspicy) was thumbs-up worthy -- sat instead in deep meditation [ed. note: a lie] before Heinekening the Champions League final [ed. note: Barcelona is pretty good] at which point the sometimes-better-half & lunatic offspring shuffled off to the in-laws, though whether I wasn't requested due to my vast interest in the game (heads), that I'm last season's accessory (tails, but black's always in style) or an unforeseen reason (side, like that old Twilight Zone ep) is too complex a question for a blog post especially this slacker affair not that I would have left the comfort of the carpet unless it was imitating a 70s disaster flick -- the inferno, not the frog army or runaway jetliner kind -- & all I know is that I've had the place to myself for far longer than I can consciously recall, no I didn't Karaoke sans machine & outer layers because I can't afford therapy for our cats.
Glossed a copy of the Necronomicon cleverly disguised.
Laid on the floor staring at the ceiling --
-- paused long enough to shoot the wall.
Screamed at myself to shamble out of pretend sleep & spend time more fruitfully by recklessly driving through an orange barrel maze that I swear was there don't care they didn't appear on screen to crash in DVD land. Au moins no one died.
No one besides good taste.
Dammit, I still have to cut the grass & work on my material 'cause this is all but a repeat of yesterday, warped along with fish-headed monkeys & alligator-skinned bearded ladies in funhouse mirrors, though if I'm feeling generous & I'm not sure just yet if I am especially to myself, all this uninspired internets is the ostensible price for "inspired" writing which probably isn't as writer's block currently isn't & that's as rare as Halley's comet visiting the Large Magellanic Cloud so roll ballpoint, roll because tomorrow's forecast is dry. I know those omens, there's an insomnia coming. Fucking second wind.