Youtube keeps popping up, telling me that it’s not responding, getting in the way of sentences that I’m working on, forcing me to close it.
Thank you Taylor Swift look-alike for helping me get through my morning ritual. I’m not talking about Kanye’s wax figure, though that has helped me accomplish the task in the past. I’m talking about a girl who probably isn’t Taylor, standing with her panties around her thighs, checking to see if she has any bush remaining.
Don’t get caught. Don’t die.
My idols are dead, and my enemies are in power.
It’s frequently a question of how fast I can take a shower. The faster we go, the better we get at being fast, but there is also an aspect of slow and steady, accuracy, precision shots with a calculated degree of not rushing the grace of God, that gets the job done. The front counter being cleaned. The other Musette coming in tomorrow to go over new book ordering with me. My position is not in danger, the accountant tells me, but how can any of us trust sixty days or however long it is that they’ve agreed to give me? She wants to know if I want to come in and check in on the place during my time away, and I’m not sure, maybe give me a couple weeks of absolute solitude, or the best that I can hope for with my expanding family, and then we’ll see if it’s something that I’m up for. My wife is telling me that I’m looking bulkier, like a football player, and I would have to agree. It’s because, as much as I want to downplay it, and as small as it may be in terms of potential, I’m pregnant too. Every word that I write is going into the book. Manwell knows what I’m talking about, and that’s part of what makes him so great. I didn’t straight tell him that I was sorry about not being able to go to the Bay area, but I’m sure that he understands. He called me out for my so-called “sub-tweeting”, but not in a way someone such as Chuck Broncos would have done, getting me gut sick. Manwell does it in a friendlier fashion, negating the pain, which deserves to be subtle, with his gigantic sense of humor.
I’ve begun unfollowing all of them anyways. I don’t need it, don’t want it in my life right now, and I’m not getting any real joy out of it anyways, especially from that Carl Joseph Cankles. Always talking about clouds and stuff, a mustache on his fingers and his face. Leaves on the sidewalk. Sun in the sky. Apples like you have never seen before! Melony giving him all the hearts in the world so that even though I’m no longer following him, I have to keep seeing him. How’s that for torture? You know what I mean? Ramming it down your throat. The future of advertising. I mean, I’ve got people more than happy to have me come to their turf. I’m throwing them a welcome mat, telling them that I’m here in theirs if they want to come here in mine.
We all love galaxim. I’ve got no qualms about saying it, and I’m not telling anybody to shut up and die. I’m not calling anybody a faggot or whatever. I’m just saying that I’d rather not look at you. You are reminding me of my student body presidency, which I tried to be a part of but was voted off stage for in my dinosaur costume, surpassed by a girl who broke the rules by passing out candy. So forgive me for being bitter, but this is my career we’re talking about. Just because I don’t show my face doesn’t mean that I’m not writing.