Dear Hot Shot, Stop.

some days are sundays, and some sundays feel like they are covered with small spikes, so that if you try to hold it in your soft fleshy hands, you get poked and draw a little blood. then draw a little picture with the little blood, if you're 'artistic'. some sundays are slippery and you end up accidentally dropping them and they are rinsed down the shower drain with your hair and pee. some sundays are not sundays at all, they are mondays or some other day of the week, and they're not all that bad. but i think you already knew that.

i have begun wishing that i was either in a different body or a different dimension. in any luck, one of the two would include myself being a mind-reader, because that would make my time on earth so easy. so easy.

anyways

enough of my complaining disguised as whatever this is. not sense, that's for sure. i want to go hang out in a gigantic sink. good thing there's one up the hill from me.

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capitan