Squatters believes they can shit like knee-bent stools and you expect me to not get bent when you decide to treat me in
Lackluster Demands meant for Patience and I am at Deficit trying to portray an obedient nature, when I choose toxic, copacetic for a mere 15 minutes – before I simply decide. I will not put up with this anymore.
Not saying I can’t, I just got a lot on my mind.
Your shitty smells and stupid screaming and my fucking own kitchen blocked from me because I want to put Beef my Partner brought from California in my fucking ribcage [through the mouth hole, digestive acts – it’s a chuck roast, dear. From Pendleton.] so I’m not an asshole and my soul is saltier than any fish roe rose stank I’m smelling from shit-stains painted in highlighter serving mud pies and spinach dip with yam leaves and ranch no seasoning.
Bullshit but enjoy your fucking dismal tea party.
I got bigger concerns than to debate my mother over a glass of wine she handed to me for a blessing.
3 sips and half a fourth. Back to the bedroom.
I got shit to do and new recruits flown in and my fucking immortal-crew of honesty is interstellar to galactic, asshole.
+++
Sensory Overload Implode. / I just had to get it out. {Vent the bottle, take the cap off, But never let it Empty.}
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