Running didn't work, I got caught. Now I just trip, because of my own blindness.

avarice

I like to sit on the floor of the shower
and feel the hot rain slide down my body
reflections of a Tuesday afternoon
Tuesday rolls down the grass and breaks her fall in your hands

we bake memories in an unconventional oven
ones that are hidden in boxes in the closet, pressed inbetween pages of a childhood book,
and occasionally, they lurk in threadbare sheets that smell faintly of your skin.
I can trace the outline of your presence
where you were and where I now sleep

then,
Thursday night blinked and turned blue
that day feasted on fiercely guarded hopes
passion stumbled on the steps of prudence
and the kitchen was closed indefinitely,
condemned by unforeseen occurrence

now,
I can barely trace the outline of your presence
where you were and where you will never be again

tomorrow is an intangible treasure
a luminescent assurance held aloft and kissed softly every evening
to justify a peaceable sleep
until you run out of tomorrows
and are left with the remains of yesterday

now,
I like to sit on the floor of the shower
and feel the hot tears slide down my face

The absolute illest-named food at Denny's:

Brace yourself.

Moons Over My Hammy

I know what you're thinking. "What. What! What?"
I feel the same way. It's horrid.

In other news...Thongs are SANDALOUS!

I had this enormous revelation in the shower.
Instead of saying "I don't know," we should say, "Ben Hur." Isn't frightening how much sense that makes?

Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking, Ben Hur. I wish that you try it just once today. Of course, Ben Hur if you do, Ben Hur if you don't.

All good things happen on the floor!
Yes, friends and neighbors, I used an exclaimation point.
Today, I was laying on Katrina's floor denouncing something, or someone, and I was trying to talk about drowning someone in the ocean, less commonly known as "Davy Jones' Locker". I...failed.

Chelsea: "...And I sent him down to Davy Crockett's Tomb....Wait....Crockett? Davy... Davy..."
Katrina: "Davy Jones Locker."
Chelsea: "Wait. that doesnt make sense. Davy Jones - Wasn't he a Partridge?"
Katrina: "No, that was David Cassidy."
Chelsea: "Wait, Davy Jones was a Monkee then."
Katrina: "No."

Foolish, no? Yet...it turns out Davy Jones WAS a Monkee! Score, Sexton.
Katrina: [rebuttal] "Never mind....Apparently he was."
Other great things happen on the floor: Impromptu Nose Fights.

Apparently, I smell like soap.
Eh, it could be worse.

My latest song obsession: The Thompson Twins - If You Were Here
I've always thought it was a beautiful love anthem, until I looked up the lyrics.

if you were here
I could deceive you
and if you were here
you would believe
but would you suspect
my emotion wandering, yeah
do not want a part of this anymore

Sounds like people have had enough of silly love songs. I better not tell Molly Ringwald.
In a world riddled with terrorism, this is comforting.

SHOUT OUT PROMPT: Worst thing to hear after saying 'I love you".
I was just on the phone with my sister, told her I loved her and she said "Yea."
Maria prefers to say "Thank you."
What about you?
I was so happy today that I sang in the shower. Last time I was that animated in the bathing chamber I broke all the toes on my left foot. It was worth it.
I'm bundled like a yeti, I want to bathe in spaghetti, I'll take you on with a machete. Word.

My world is crashing down upon me, and the only thing I can think about is how much it all looks like a jigsaw puzzle. I am a lumberjack in the lumberyard of love. I am a cog in the magnificent machine. I am not, however, svelte.

Why can't I stop shaking. Many people have told me I quiver like a defrosting meat popsicle. Ok, not exactly in those words, but that's what they're getting at.

Bliss makes me drowsy.
Now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way.

Hi Club Initiation: Matt.
"I will never read from a book again."

Yonaton Landau on Rockstars:
Robert Plant becomes articulate: "Yea! No! Yeah! Naw! Yaaaaaaahhhh...."
Eric Clapton does the same: "Hey hey, hey hey baby hey. Hey hey baby hey."
Jim Morrison waxes poetic: "WEEEE!! Wha wha wuuaaa....wuoowwww. uuuweeeeeEE!"

vortex of chunky desire slathers hearty tangerine sauce down the wrists of the maid. to yawn over thrown dishes of slithering leaves and windowsills, a marvelous deed indeed. ultra precise words and carob chips make wonderful strides of vanity and electricity. spindles quiver in lofty branches, wanting to live, sucking on lips and noodles, only to be filled with reverberating quadratric terms. moss creeping up cedars and legs: invaders from a place much cleaner than this.

AND I SHALL CALL THIS ONE..."I smell cabbage."
When in doubt, grab a Joycian Freewrite.