Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. If it's vacation, it must be sick again, though not just flesh this time, and that's the wart of worry. The rewrite's usually harder with each passing line, tricksy 3am wrenches jambed, but that cleansing fire was loaded with extra Nyquil, or Benadryl, some kind of i/yl(l), so either the disturbingly easy confessional's a lie, the noxious seep of a tingle I want no part of (fear being the mind assassin, after all, or is it laughter, as long as it's not irony, and, most pertinent, which I are we talking about), strike while the iron's hot. Or (which) I can sit back, shake my skull like a piñata getting whacked by a bunch of overmedicated children, and wonder what the fuck is going on.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Dark nights and that soul thing
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Up early myself after only going to bed four hours ago. Damn house is too quiet and then there is the ever present fear the septic tank will start burping again forcing me to run down to the local doc-in-the-box Urgent care to use the bathroom just when Security started noticing something was up.
Saw the Hobbit yesterday and may just do a LOTR's marathon because my usual crappy prose is especially smelly these days.
No wonder you can't sleep, what with all the metal playing.
~
I'd burn the midnight oil too if I had any left in the boiler.
If your skull were to shake "like a piñata getting whacked by a bunch of overmedicated children," what would fall out?
Last time I struck while the iron was hot all I got for my trouble was a burned thumb.
BB, the invading Ostrogoth of a root's been nuked though, yes? And instead of running all the way over there, why not just leave appreciative coils upon the lawns of your most favorite neighbors?
if, nothing says skullcrushing like medieval German abbesses.
demeur, got a couple of bottles of Jim Beam?
tom, you really think I'm going to answer that? [the correct answer is "air"]
susan, precisely why everyone should own an asbestos suit. An ounce of debilitating illness is worth a pound of iron.
After they just privatized all the liquor stores here who could afford that?
you know it's really hard to sleep when someone keeps banging away on that metal...
Jambed wrenches, Nyquil, cleansing fire. Next you'll complain your Vidal has been gored and the taillessness of your ox means the soup's going to be a little thin this time.
Some good, strong coffee and a breakfast of sausage-stuffed, chicken-fried maple bars with scrambled eggs on the side could make all the difference.
Ironically laughing mind assassins are best treated with expired Krusty brand cough syrup with a Flaming Moe chaser. Pay no attention to those heart palpitations. Happy New Year, Randal!
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