I feel stupid for all my sorrows.
No regrets – damn, that happened.
Is pretty much all I account myself when I feel … [simply.non-verbal. about it.]
It doesn’t feel any other way.
Heightened, yet reduced as well in empithets from a shoulder-shrugs.
That’s still an improvement, correct?
It’s supposed to be the end of my life.
Nearly 10 years younger than me hearing the ruse into early, bare-minumum retirement.
I fucking doubt it.
Just got up and left the table silent.
“Don’t say anything if you have nothing well to say..”
Well, if I was a man in your patriarchal god&sense of a community – I would’ve been seen as stern.
Holy! But merciful in my glare.
Mein schnize says something else and feels a-jarred.
Like an open-trunk of a car.
Dealer’s choice of healing.
Life Lessons with zhe Boss
Y
Sandyfordtuffogh Cardigan, for the taking.
For the win.
For the ultra presumptuous praise all the pain goes away just because of one milestone, which I’ve accomplished many times.
I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again.
Bite yourself in the ass again, Samantha.
Praise almightier truths like weakness + doubt.
Antagonize against yourself until all cares and worries are meaningless and simple subjugation into taking a side.
Check-Check badass-agent-sam; you’ve donez the step-oneyroonies!
Now I can be a meaningless withering piece of shit!
Did I admit that I naturally breathe photosynthesis like a plant, and not cellar respiration?
Talk to your plants… sigh, the plant is blind+deaf.
Another 3 symbol 3.
Fuck me, I can’t take much more in sob stories.
And mob mentalities.
And lotteries in ambiguities.
I’ve held down everyone’s stray-stories.
The walk aways, besides the walk-hard ones.
Indecent barfolk, was a decent time in our life.
Patrols and speeding in the multi-hundos just to feel something.
I guess the adrenaline fades to cortisol seamlessly.
Stressed out to sleep.
See visions as soon as I close my eyes.
My mental space imploded by short codes horror stories.
What have you done, Samantha?
“What’s been up inside there while you went so quiet again, dear?”
I can’t tell ya, yet.
Suppose it’s going to be Art.
Of some sort.
I guess.
Hasn’t changed much no matter how many 11 year old years I’ve had.
About 6.
Same feeling.
I’ve never gotten this far.
24.
Dismal indeed.
Broken beam and bolt infused into my neck and my spine is like chastain, holding together scoliosis.
Broke your MRI – told you CAt scan worked better.
Maybe a CT.
Won’t see anything without that fluid (dumbass.)
Either way.
Sickly with slippers.
I don’t know what to make of it.
It was always “break time” from work every time I grew up.
What do I do with it now?
Make time to cook.
Less time to write.
More puzzles.
“I want to see how you think.”
You see it’s challenging me in non&verbals.
Sometimes in my deepest intimacies, I cover my eyes and wink wink wink and it’s how I remembered the world for 27 + 43.
That’s a Sacred-Truth to sum up how I’m feeling.
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