By I
just got off work, cracked myself a beer and – in a brain-dead haze –
looked at the six articles I’ve been puttering on after dragging my ass
home. Most of them scare the piss outta me, but not because they may be
over-the-top, taboo, complete failures, or even that I may get my share
of backlash for daring to consider such concepts. The problem is that,
when I’m not already mentally and physically exhausted, the very real
ramifications of what I’m typing tends to trigger my OCD and then my
conspiracy theorist boner twangs, sending me into a state of terrified
shock as my mind reels with the absurdity that people can’t actually see
the blatant truth all around them.
Do I really gotta point it out and describe the problems to them? REALLY??? Given that people still drink and drive, and/or use dangerous recreational drugs, I really shouldn’t be surprised but, come on humanity, throw me a bone of hope before I water my beer down too much.
My fantasy girlfriend sent me a private message not long ago, eagerly looking forward to my next violating mind-rape of what I consider to be “common sense” (If sense were common, we’d all be wise; sadly, we are not). I tried desperately to cry on her textual shoulder and make sad pitiful excuses with no apologies, all the while making a long-winded assault on her saintly gynotegrity.
Do I really gotta point it out and describe the problems to them? REALLY??? Given that people still drink and drive, and/or use dangerous recreational drugs, I really shouldn’t be surprised but, come on humanity, throw me a bone of hope before I water my beer down too much.
My fantasy girlfriend sent me a private message not long ago, eagerly looking forward to my next violating mind-rape of what I consider to be “common sense” (If sense were common, we’d all be wise; sadly, we are not). I tried desperately to cry on her textual shoulder and make sad pitiful excuses with no apologies, all the while making a long-winded assault on her saintly gynotegrity.