There is no quiet inside the mind.

Not sure which nose it was… but grade school ☾𐂂 would walk around on one wearing a shirt just like this.

Still not really sure how to handle one party 100% regretting and one party 95% not regretting purchasing a home since month two (the generous estimate).

Malproducing world logic unit verity example deux: it is okay that everything is not okay.

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.

Instead of banning encampments and criminalizing the homeless to clean up our waterways how about deputizing and tasking them with keeping their surroundings tidy. Try giving them something to care for instead of taking the very last thing away.

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.