As I sit down to write after months of procrastinating and being constantly anxious about not having written in a fairly long time (It’s not so much the not writing as a not being able to), I’m admittedly under pressure and rather inclined to either produce a sheer masterpiece that will infuse new meaning into the phrase “All’s well that ends well” or something that will fade away faster than nature and time can nurture it in their inclement bosom and make it worthy. At this time I’m exactly ambivalent about both prospects. And yes, educated, civilized men such as myself who were raised properly use words like exact ambivalence to describe

RIGHT. Another useless paragraph. By this point usually a story has built up, my coffee is half over and I’m on the brink (customary pause to appreciate a good word) of concluding it and as I gulp down the remaining half (hah. Suck it Optimist! How long did your “glass half full” last?) a great and apt climax just comes to me. Not in an orgasmic way (well, mostly), but in a Sherlock Holmes way. A DR. HOUSE WAY!. You’ve got admit though, you aren’t bored. You’re kinda having fun while still wondering what the fuck this is and why you’re still reading this. Much appresh.

FUCK. I need to stop this squalor. Yuck. Yuck. Ees horrible.

OKAY. BRAND NEW DAY. Fresh start. Afresh.

The tetchy old man with the glassy gums who wouldn’t kill a bird but would violate hyenas. Said something about laughing when you’re turned on really turned him on.

DARK. Very Very DARK. Still better than the fidgety old man with scrawny thighs who wouldn’t eat ham but would violate goats. Said something about wanting kids. (Now that’s a clever joke. Only people who know that a young goat is called a kid would get it. By virtue of reading this, you are now one of those people)

But the worst of them all. The sepulchral old man with boundless freckles who would put pineapple on his pizza. (The joke should’ve ended there. But I’m an encore guy myself.) And Ketchup. Then he grilled it. (Here’s the prequel). He would do this every morning after having his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and then brushing his teeth with toothpaste. Strong, gum abrasive toothpaste. (ask the tetchy old man with the glassy gums, he’ll tell you a thing or two about that)

STILL LOOKING. HUNTING. FOR A DIRECTION.

This is not good for my writer’s block. As Hank Moody as this is, it’s not good at all. I need a spear up my balls to work. Which can be hard. What with gravity and all. But over the years, it’s the only way I’ve trained myself to function under. I hate being one of those people. I’ve become terribly reticent. Toward everything.

Anyway. The plump old man with the egg shaped belly who never took a whore but violated food. Said something about whores being unholy and depraved. He didn’t objectify women. Only womanized objects.

The racist old man with the knotted beard and tiny red scars on his arms now has HIV but not from multiple partners. He’s not a harlot.

The dying old man with a DNR was later found violated in a manner most gruesome. (Don not read if you have a pre-existing sensitivity condition and/or if you like to sue). He was half eaten and violated by wild beasts.

Fuck man. I need to stop this. Hey, at least the writer’s block is gone.

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