Sometimes I run around in circles beating myself with bowling pins and waiting for the sun to make breakfast before Edna comes home with a sand pale full of dead fish and screaming that the next door neighbors once again are performing open-picnic-table autopsies in their backyard during football season. *sigh* Why do red birds with yellow wings always peck my hair out when I'm trying to whack off in the men's room? Sometimes I curse the skies and stomp the earth, hoping to make peace with the middle ground while dreaming of a life that doesn't so closely resemble hell. Are you with me? Are you pissy? What a sissy, stupid pussy. I'll kill you, and eat your entrails with barbecue sauce and a spruce of parsley. On cold days in July the urban monks with their swimming trunks can be found picking pickled peppers amongst the barren corn field of some decayed super-highway, waiting for the sun rise or the sun set, I don't know which. They don't know either....and instead of laboring over the truth they play poker with the lies and pray for an end to the solitude of their meaningless and depressing existence. Once again we return to the source of our misery, buried in flour and breading. WHYYYYY? And we light up the sky.