When you wonder whether you don’t feel like producing or you don’t feel like sharing.

Not quite sure where God’s world building concept went off the rails… my guess is the search ought begin near the logic unit designed to produce verities like it’s funny that it’s not funny.

When we had it in the bag.

Now I kinda want to pen an autobiography that not a one of you could possibly understand and call it My Ungrokkable Self

Perhaps I ought condition myself to give everyone the performance they’re looking for, like yesterday… and this morning. My ungrokkable self is tired of caring and a performance is the quickest way to pat them on the back and send them out smiling.

The formula for how quick you are to dismiss that which runs contrary contains a fitness factor correlating to the current state of your imagination.

Score an assassination attempt for the post-debate bed wetters, I guess, who still think we’re polling reality and have panicked some patriotically painted person into thinking our Tree of Liberty needed refreshing when there is already someone manning the sprinklers they keep telling to go home.

If you’re inner dialogue is still arguing or spitting daggers the next day, you didn’t get the better of nuttin’ and you sure as shit ain’t done processing.

When you wonder how much time you’ve wasted wondering.

Being as the New York Times hasn’t understood the plain truth since 2019…

More words

When everything tastes sour.

When you’re holding her hostage if you don’t agree to sell the house you are still trying to set the fuck up (month three).

I wonder how a different flavor of fuckup would taste as well, all things considered

I wonder what a different flavor of smart would taste like.

Because y’all thought you were watching a debate, it is no longer safe to watch my local news. Thanks for that. I can’t even get angry or disappointed about this anymore. All my fucks have flown the coop.

Time to disconnect

I’m done. Just… fucking… done… trying. Like anything.

By the way, fuck every living soul passing judgment on an eighty-whatever-the-fuck man spent a lifetime battling a stuttering speech impediment for failing to find words in the face of a batshit buzzsaw. Just saying.

Perfection and imperfection aren’t opposites. They aren’t even mutually exclusive.

When you realize the listening never outlasts the qualifier contextualizing what you were actually wanting to communicate.

Less is more than less more or less

When the thought “I haven’t one positive thing in my life” shows up DOA.

This one could use an update. We couldn’t stand the clutter so now we just hold new arrivals to the flame and watch the halogen pop.

Side note: If y’all fuck this up now, I am rechristening the War of the Bubbles. Its new name shall be the War of the Bed Wetters