on the road three houses down from my house was a dead dog. i stared at it for ten minutes i think. i was still fucked up from the pine sol. it was just too pitiful not to look at, and made me sadder the longer i conceived it. and the blaring contradiction stared me in the face, of lamenting a dead stray yet feeling nothing at speargunning my father's father. the notion of being a hypocrite is very unappealing to me, but i figured if millions of church-goers could do it why not me. i'm no better than anyone, far worse in most cases.
so i finally went inside my shanty. i tripped over my fucking scooty-puff in the dark and kicked it into the kitchen. i turned on my metronome without turning on the lights, then took some red bull and vodka from the fridge. this day sucked. every day sucked, but this one in particular, what with having to kill a relative and the dead dog and all. not to mention my fucking scooty-puff, which i think now had pieces missing. i sat on the floor and opened my mail.
album du jour: midwest product specifics
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