the filial monday that will unfold before my eyes holds the boorishness of a kitty cat and the ego of aubrey o'day. what happened to the minimal scraps that became my weekend? why did harold and kumar escape from guantanamo bay have to be such a gratuitous celluloid blur? how come the first day of the week always smells like sulfur and stagnant declension? the answers to these cryptic ambiguities lie in the pumpkin pie i made last night (the first of the season, this particular season belonging soley to jesus' for he is the obvious and only reason for this 'season'; an axiom on the bumpers of the illuminated and enlightened citizens of earth).
waycong 2 meeeyamii guillz.
Monday, September 29, 2008
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