Mar 24, 2017
Ex Text
I think my carpet is killing me - And if I write it, it makes it more true. So I had to think twice before writing it. But writing it out is dealing with it. Fuck knows. I’m neurotic. Fuck knows, maybe it is killing me. My slipper socks shed like a yak. God help this drug addled giant, and find him a matching pair of socks. I know you’re not thinking about unblocking me. Your head is probably tipsy with razor-blades doing the fandango in it’s usual cloak of groan - tapered just for Monday Mornings. But That cloak, it stole a man’s placid temperament you see. There are five-gazillion specks of fuzz on this carpet and you are not here, cross-legged, to help pick them away with me.
