fishcarcass, D'Aubigny Park

fishcarcass, D'Aubigny Park
Originally uploaded by amnesoid

o fishe! blende thy unscaled sparkes to endlesse horizons!

blessed be the crumbles of rocke which claimeth thee.

rejoice! for few of us will evre be allowed to decompose in peace alonge bankes of rivres.

Tuesday, 26th June

Hello I honestly do not know what to write. I am not anonymouse enough, this is the problem. How much freer are you when there is no one to judge you afterwards?

There are fingernail clippings all over the place, piles on dressers, fished off of dinnerplates, hiding points-up in carpets, etcet. There is sorting to be done on various tables, endtables, diningtables, kitchentables and coffeetables. Sorting of other things, I mean, not fingernail clippings.

I read the news today, Oh Boy.

My Dad visited today and affixed a nicely crafted plank of wooden nature onto the frame of my futon device. It will hinder the futon mattresse from becoming so egressed with gravity, feeling so overwhelmed as to slide itself onto the floor. How all of my furniture pouts, but mechanical stops will put an end to that. In return, I treated to dinner. I am probably less like a son everyday, more like a bore. Who knows. I am traited to behaviorally adapt to the tendencies of my furniture. Except that my mechanical stops are egregiously symbolic, and always make that sneer that people make after the shot of whiskey.

There are rubber stamps with a sincere devotion to my fates. Pepperment to starboard brain, buttorscotch to port.

...

It is a downer that, actually, if you do "let the sunlight in, and face it with a grin" then eventually you are getting the cancer. I have greeted our wondrous star with open arms and shortened sleeves on the past three weekends, and have accumulated substantial damages for each. I will never be able to enact revenges on The Sun, mostly because I am one-hundred and seventy-five pounds and I am only wily enough to fool corporate management and./or white trash denizens. Meanwhile, the sun obliterates a billion tons of prefleshe per second in its selfless mission of warmth and light, and does this all at such an insurmountable distance as to discourage jumping-bitchslaps.

Yeah yeah yeah.

Where has all of the eons of pet hair accumulated to? I wonder.

SLAP!

The human hand has at least 27 bones, and I managed to fracture seventeen of them during only my first drunken handslapping contest. I am so disappointed.