Waiting in the sun, brain & blood churning out a phrase that rhymes with tree, pen blurting out oh, be a fine girl, kiss me, the end, never, the means, yes, oh yes. I loathe a parade but 70°'s now (mildly) groovy, less armageddon than it used to be.
Sure, bunch of stuff labeled 'fuckery' is still going on, still will, rancid butter n' splattered guts, son, you ain't wrenching the gears no matter what, so go play in the street, have fun, & watch out for rampaging Wheelie Buses, run by Skynet or not.
Even Fucking Chelsea victories canst derail thee.
I give this mood until about ten, then, the return of troo kvlt, baby.