I ate too much junk food yesterday. Remember all the cookies and Doritos?
A lot of farts, but no poop.
I feel guilty every single time.
She’s running a lint roller over one of the chairs. The machine is running slow this morning. My skull is split. Right up front in the middle of my forehead. I can’t tell if my brain is trying to spill out. Like as though my skull has become or has always been an alien egg. A giant cyst developing through its fetal years.
It’s a marinara morning. But I cut it way too close. Singed my hair off in Kentucky Fried corpse creating fashion. You know, the way that only a real tight situation can. My mom only like a few houses down. At the Landking’s. My sister walking into the house, what but under five minutes after I’d finished.
I’m dressed as Ace Ventura, pet detective. My mom is upstairs, unable to sleep without her husband. I almost had a heart attack, driving to pick up Musette. I figure it might have just been gas, but you never really can tell. I’m probably round about old enough to where it wouldn’t be way weird.
This is where it is. This is where it gets us. All is lost. There is no hope for me.