I wanted to be a forelock dangling from under your cowl

What's up? Lucky beer. The way life with my girlfriend parses a thin layer of clothes, evenly spread, over every inch of the house. I don't blame her, since I do fuck-all to stop it. My new, new, newy new television (Television! Oh how you did delight in me, it's true I hate you now but I never stopped loving you. You little shit, you never moved. The dumb fucking music videos I used to be addicted to like dumb fucking anything, keeping me still, empty, till my brother came home from the sulfur plant and tossed me around for not touching the pile of dishes, his face caked with dried venom, in the kitchen in our trailer, in our drama, in the sink. Television! Moving! Vision! Telling and seeing! Never ever ever stop telling and seeing, ) it's a flat-screen so I'm set till one of us dies and the race is on! I've watched eleven thousand hours on this one already. I work shift work so I have to drink. I don't drink enough to compensate for what my job does to me. Employment is a vice. It feels like a vice. They should have a support group. Nauseated, constipated? Forgetful, dysphasic? Overly emotional or dead as the radio? Not sleeping much, or right, or with anyone? Do you tell people what you really think of them? If any or all of these symptoms blah blah blah, you may have a job noone wants to do! Share with us your boring story. Maybe the weight of them all will shift us back into death where we belong.

Ah, but it isn't all jackanjory's delightful dorries, either. Sometimes Christmas comes and you have to go piss on a nativity scene somewhere in your neighborhood. Hey, happy. It's happy, it's a happy! I am, truly. But it's too late to stop being golyadkin.