Sunday Funday

There were a lot of orders going out today. La Pew’s Last Stand; Poseidon a n d Ringworm, both; Fire station; Cry Baby; and even the swinger’s club. It didn’t give me much time to do my toilet scrubbing and mopping. These are supposed to be my Cinderella Sundays.

Now that I think about it, I even had to go to Shake That Mother Lovin Bacon. Old boy in there had a baby in his hands – called it a cute little person.

It was a girl wearing glasses who checked the order in there. I had a feeling she stunk. It’s just an intuition I have. A sixth sense. I didn’t smell her, but I bet I could have. I haven’t figured out what causes the scent – it’s like moldy flesh or Yeasting vaginas. Cheese curding out of your dick tip. Fuck that, am I right? Good lord knows I am. Nobody wants a mouth full of thick, warm smell they’ve got to chew after suckin it like marrow from your wonky ass tip slit.

I forgot to tell you that last night we watched Mankind about Christ, Paul, and Christianity. Now I want to be your Joan of Arc more than ever. Prince Hamlet. That is me, my Opheliac. Here I am, still shaking at the wrist, this year just beginning, New York ever closer on the horizon, the streets mad and bustling all around us. Moloch. That’s what the say. Keep your head, I tell myself. Don’t be afraid.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve got to skip time, Sunday just wasn’t that interesting to me, and I’ve got to keep my keyboard unlimbered. My scalp itches. There are plates all over the floor. Musette is picking them up. She has been looking for her notebook for the last couple of days.

Everyone is so funny. So many puns. I laugh with them, sweating from my eyes. Just keep it up keeper on. This isn’t Kansas anymore, tough guy.

Burroughs rises from the last day of January to remind to always be myself and not become a talking asshole. The saint mother tells me there is something stable at my core.

Galaxim asks Piper about getting her eyelashes done. Piper spends a lot of money on that kind of thing.

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