Intaglio 2.0

Okay, so I missed yesterday; it's not like I'm going for a wordcount or even anything relevant.

Here, have mostly naked, semi-fit kinda skanky chicks with a prefab reed instrument loop instead.

It's a shame about that first young lady, there; I finally found my legspiration. I mean goddamn.

I WONDERED what had become of Crystal Waters. That was THE "wait where exactly is second base lol" song du jour when I was in highschool.

Our main vehicle broke itself the fuck down last night and we've got to limp it into the dealers today.

This post is brought to you by the theory that gratuitous sex is more interesting than yet more whining.

I'm late, but I'm here. I don't want to be here, but I'm here. I have nothing to say while I'm here, but I'm here. Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself; I cannot do otherwise.

This is often the nature of a writing exercise.

We've bug-bombed the house and cleaned it and everyone is absolutely exhausted and I swear I meant to do my homework. I brought all of it with me. I ate too much lunch and slept with my face in my jacket and my fingers in my ears, dogs keening and snapping at the fronts of their crates by my elbow. All day.

The nearest thing to good is half-sleep in too much sun after too much food.

When I'm looking forward to Monday, just to have somewhere different to go, I wonder if I'm more stressed than I realize, or if I just run this way, tuned too hot, something from nothing and nothing and nothing, it's nothing, no go.

I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. I think we're done here.