16/09/2013 - NEVER TOO LATE TO FORMAT THE PAINTING

Never too late to format the painting and painter within the same soft breath of a salami sentence. Never out of the question to change the spillage into something with a certified heritage and a garden to match it. Never say direction for it is a plain-speaking word that does little to ingratiate itself with the lesser races. Never be posh and polite ahead of the accountancy department. Never knowingly undergo transplant surgery for the sake of the Fatherland, Motherland or some such patriotic whiff. Never let go of this delicate embrace even as it puts the pressure on. Never tip the scales of the waitress before she has time to drop you a stooge.  Never forgive, never elucidate, never nitrify, never doctor false footage, never splendour at the destruction of the insane masses. Never leave the building for so long as you live, may God in Heaven hold your peace with pretty heavy thumbs.

So sayeth I, thus spoke this dude and so on and so forth. I’m really not trying on this case, I’m out to glow right in the cupboards in search of turgid bed sheets. If I find yours then I’m going and I won’t be contacting the porous maniac you did in a flash of shame, of course. What do you take me for? Honesty?  Honestly. I’m a big gay ball of Euclidian butt masks and you should know it, you instructed my whole style whilst I was down in that dank dinky hole called Constipation for the duration of my teenage years. I had big plans but swiftly changed them to see if the basket could handle the rapid transformation from bread into breadsticks. It didn’t but at least we got a few tasty shards out of it. And the dough, oh the dough! Rich in all kinds of nutrients: some naked, others just lost down a groper’s alleyway.

You remember that don’t you, bitch. Sorry, I meant big itch but that amalgamation came out a lot shinier in my head box. I’m not the voice of the people yet but now I have every intention of running my own campaign to see if any loser would neglect there absolute right not to fucking vote like a fucking dinosaur mechanic. I have nothing against dinosaur mechanics personally, I will of course tidy up that statement before the badges are made and neatly tucked into various baby carriages.

                I’m going home to change. I’m going to see where the folders my mother kept have been moved to since the hour and a half I’ve spent talking to you happened. I’m going to learn tons about grammar, maybe even fashion a hat and bangles out of the plentiful features of my discarded papers. Mother went off all snotty this morning and I want to find out what her big secret it. It might just turn that boy’s head over there, the one with the target and the map pledged between his shoulder blades. He looks cute for you.