Harvest Moon Special
A spectacularly obnoxious noise dominates the conversation. Of course, without you even realizing it, it's your own nasal whistle that occurs every time you speak. But hell, he's not listening now anyway, he's not even capable with his depleted mental state. Why would you explain to him the primary principles of existence anyway? Do you think he even possesses a shit goblet of respect for your thoughts in that 10-day old cantaloupe brain he's got? He doesn't. You should have realized it. He's driving the car propelled by the human chain. He understands more about you than you do, but mutually, you don't give two shits either. He wears a Jesus sticker on his leg, under his pants, and screams obscenities at his fallen forefathers. He visualizes the now with contempt for the past. It's his fuel. He'd kill you if it wouldn't cause him judicial harm. He squirts venom from his left eye. It's aqua-blue and smells like corn chips. It will infect you.
Anyway, as much power as the man holds, just keep stickin' it to him. What does it really matter anyway? At the end of the day there's nothing worse that could be done to you than to have your bowels ripped out through your left ventricle and out a freshly cut hole in your armpit. That's what it's like to have your precious principles ground out on the pavement.
Times like this call for extreme measures. The harvest moon provides that. It provides a likely antidote for any number of obnoxious tainted cells. You've proven yourself worthy per last year's Renaissance Festival. You, dressed up in elven gear, rode into the sunset on the back of your morals, creaky, dried and withering in the wind, as with the life that we've been brought. The penultimate in life, just before the last breath. The Harvest Moon Special, just like the Winter Solstice Camp that you attended, can be a precursor of soul lament, just like your family's ill-will towards you. Take a timeout, go to the event, and grind down your self-esteem to a nub, at the level that it ought to be at. Have a good dream, dreamer.
Anyway, as much power as the man holds, just keep stickin' it to him. What does it really matter anyway? At the end of the day there's nothing worse that could be done to you than to have your bowels ripped out through your left ventricle and out a freshly cut hole in your armpit. That's what it's like to have your precious principles ground out on the pavement.
Times like this call for extreme measures. The harvest moon provides that. It provides a likely antidote for any number of obnoxious tainted cells. You've proven yourself worthy per last year's Renaissance Festival. You, dressed up in elven gear, rode into the sunset on the back of your morals, creaky, dried and withering in the wind, as with the life that we've been brought. The penultimate in life, just before the last breath. The Harvest Moon Special, just like the Winter Solstice Camp that you attended, can be a precursor of soul lament, just like your family's ill-will towards you. Take a timeout, go to the event, and grind down your self-esteem to a nub, at the level that it ought to be at. Have a good dream, dreamer.
posted by fiestawizard at 5:46 PM
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