Fucking Monday

I feel like writing might jinx this, but it might also help it along its way. What you ask? The end of the world and my account of it. I tell you as I stand before you, that I have seen it in my head, or at least what I imagine it to be and I will someday, preferably soon, tell you all about it, so if the end does actually come, there won’t be any confusion. This will be my project, unless something else just happens first. Regardless, this deed shall be done none the less, especially now since I’ve been talking so much about it.

But I die all the time, and so do you and so do we all. Of course I speak as though I actually have some sort of wisdom, which of course I don’t. But if I did, I don’t know if I’d use it. Honestly, I may have wisdom and may be doing such a knock up job of ignoring it that I don’t even remember that it was ever there. And I’m sick and I don’t know what to do about it. Or maybe I’m not sick, but I think I am and that is that. I should just cough up blood and smile and show my teeth and fall away, but I won’t. No, I like myself too much and could never smile. It would blow my cover and then everyone would know who I am, and that just won’t do.

So since I blew my own cover, what now? Do I rub eyes until everything changes? I could try but I doubt there would be any fruit. I could be a puppeteer. I know random, but it’s a random event and may be something I’ll actually pursue. I could write for a job and make people laugh and that’s essentially it, right? I mean, I talk a lot of game but sooner or later I am going to have to step up to that fucking plate and do what I couldn’t do in seven years of little league. Or maybe I’ll cower and fall back, as is the easy course that my weakness would like to pursue. But I really must make my contribution to society, if not for my own ego and what not, at least to help. I must be capable of doing something and you can’t really get there in a day.

But I don’t want to grow up and deal with nonsense. Change is scary and by god, I’m shaking in my flops. But blah and blah and crap and waste and this is all that there is for now. So until our impending doom, I bid you adieu. Maybe for all time, or maybe not. I won’t sway my writing to any which opinion. But mine is well known, as you know. The body quits easy, especially when it’s in poor shape as mine is.

Oh, and I know it’s Tuesday. Go fuck yourself.

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