Things to pretend that you did when you were eighteen part one.
|fig.87) arm over face (in weeks still)|
For a while I work on my spelling. I pull out my dictionary every night and for a while I sit alone and work on my cover letter. That is until I realize that the only word that matters is, you. Then with the help of my keyboard that's also shortened by one. By 7 o'clock I'm as tight as a flat fart and my job is waiting. Welcome home is how I sign my letter, care of B' fucking J'.
So I go out with with some stickers to vote in my bathrobe. CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SYNERGY, CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SYNERGY, it's all up and down Milwaukee Ave now. It's on every little red kiosk and light post between here and Avondale. I keep a yellow chap book in my pocket for jotting shit like this down. It's full of neologisms. It's like a church of spartans in the raft of Texas full of, song song song.
But after a long day in a hot room with Murray and the Luke Skywalker of dance, I really want to unwind. It's like I'm always saying to Theresa, "Like all of the times before now, these are also shared. There's so much more for us to build and to be said with all of the knowledge that we have yet to learn. So let's stay engaged. After all, these might be disruptive times but they're not end times."
"Because I am rich with old care. Rich and nameless, between this bath and the windows sill," is what Theresa is always saying.
"Because I am rich, stoner rich. O' Green and fancy greener too."
"So dry yur eyez," she snaps.