[I hate myself. Do Better.]

+++

Always leave an undercoat at your desk.
You never know when you may feel a bit of chill
And feel so cemented in your own steps.
You can’t leave the desk.
Everything else up hill.
And instead you choose,
To fall.

About it.

It’s safer to sit down before one were to plummet.

I feel this way most days.
The seasons change and I all I want to do is work.
Peruse myself and my barriers, inhibitions per-say.
That my only regularity in stature is commitment-of-task.
And many looked stupid before.
Surfing the web, allocating the web.
I’ve seen enough spiders that They Dance To Me
When I pop in the bathroom
And don’t shower.
No time for that.
Self-Care every 3 weeks.
Touchups are neat + tidy, don’tcha think?

Well, I’ll be damned. They still work.
No time for perfume,
But I keep herbal cologne tonic in my desk.
I stopped using all those pain-relieving balms
And put on the back brace
To relay to myself,
my , you have lost quite a bit of weight, huh.
And I look dismal.
And everyone liked my eyebrows.
6 days and If I were to go backwards.
They were pretty Stage 3 instead of Terminal Looking.
Rewind-Dozed.

And all my life lives in cycles. And I say no to temptation and yes to fate.
And it’s never been quieter
Or more comfortable
To choose honest huskof myself.

There’s a sense of safety in that.
Only Cooking
Leftovers.
“You don’t feel safe at home you’re only cooking leftovers>”
Diddling your time.
Parlay spice and ration racks.
And my snacks last months and my pantry staples will go awhile
And I only get beetles sniffing the irish cream I’m curing on mini-fridge stability
For the holidays.
Oh, the secret is out.

Elk in my Freezer.
Hand-pelted Shumai
And I’m gonna hit bricks making sound for tartare sky
Crumblings flakes of crackery dust for a snack
And steam those bitches in a
Cast iron pan.

Dual-Cord Society.
The East-Side has lamented for 400 gold.

And squared, has been what my curves to sensation
Of any ambiguity
At enjoying life
In it’s dismal tsk tsk
When I don’t get to write about it.

Oh Emily,
Has been nobody many times.
Dead Personalites Remembrance.
Call it a Mausoeluem to my works.
I’ve been seeing her style linger while the Jackson presumes otherwise.

I don’t what to recollect from Greece and chains in Venice.
Detective Stories, somehow always look like a heart-breaker.
JungYoung, no more Frued in my mind.
Appreciate my own fucking studies for once.

Casrlireayrean, it’s become.
I’ll save faces later.
At least, I speak the language.
Even if it’s not tagalog, calamansi wouldn’t have come around without all those korean oranges and chinese brews.

Hm Hm.
They went fast there too, awhile before carolian found that too.

Find out or otherwise.
Listen to hard music.

I don’t give a shits foruh nothing.