Jesus, prosebox again? Where’d you get off too, peeing in the neighbors rosebush? Maybe that was me, figuratively of course, going off and peeing in rose bushes. C’mon it’s not like anyone expects much different from us, I mean sure, no one expects that we are always running off and/or peeing in rose bushes, but it comes as no surprise if we are. Prosebox, of course, not exactly being a single entity with a singular bladder, which makes it less likely but more capable.
My fucking knee hurts.
I might be going mad too but I can’t point to place and say “Oh that bit there, mad as a mothermucker”. We don’t quite use that word for that meaning here in America as we descend towards the second century of this millennium. Or, in a more pious stick-up-the-butt kind of way, towards the third millennium removed from Christ.
That’s one hell of a damn way of thinking about it. Heading away from the son of god, from grace, from the sight of the creator. Naw, I’m not trying to fuck with anyone, but if you feel fucked with come and howl at the moon with me. When it comes down to it we’re all just a bite away from being a wolf, sort of. Wolves, for instance, don’t bite for ideals or vanity or all the other shit we do (I’m not going to say money, you already did). Wolves work in a pack with an indisputable hierarchy, they mate for life, they have just as much cause, if not more, to be scared of humans than we do. Maybe we should take that bite.
Hey! Hey! If you’re going to read this far quit thinking how mad a motherfucker is.
Wait, no, that’s as far as this goes. I guess.
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