The race of life is about as fair as mud being stuck being mud. I am certainly certain that mud did not in fact choose to be mud. And if it did, that was a terrible career move. The possibilities of being a large pile of mud are end-less, meaning less of an end and more of a definite termination. It can be stepped in, sometimes thrown, rare cases eaten, and more absurdly grown. But that is the point that was not my point. Until now. My original point was to say that no matter how many swigs of California-exploiting juice we swallow or lamp posts we may have caught on fire; no matter how hard you can throw or how many feathers in your comforter you can smell, the only thing does matter is that life is unfair and you will always be that broken light bulb in the bottom right-hand corner of a flatbed Re-Po truck. Life is not your friend. If you were friends, he would daily beat you and tell everyone else of your abnormal fascination for leopard print finger-nail clippers. Forcing you into a downward spiral of emotional shadow. Crying upon your speed racer pillow counting in your head all the other friends you have. That's when life comes back and slaps you across the eyebrow forcing you to realize that you don't yet know how to count to the number one. And no matter how many times you may ask, people seem to think you as a "pretty funny guy" for asking such a question. It is in that moment of internal reflection of "am I really am funny? Or am I vaguely recalling my funny bone being surgically
removed after a horrible accident occurring just before finishing a 64 day marathon of Malcolm in the middle and Malcolm on the left-side. Then for an undisclosed reason you hold on tight to the phrase, "The truth hurts" not knowing why or knowing whether one day you will stumble upon a "why" that satisfies your savage seek for closure. Pain killers help. Painful killers hurt. Killers of pain help. Help on pain killers is informant. Help on painful killers is far too expensive for the lack of helpful hints that it contains. Simply stating, "good luck." Which isn't even a complete sentence. Just remember, that when in doubt, no one can be trusted. No one can give you the help that you need, except for CHA-CHA.
James-Deanly,
Kyle
removed after a horrible accident occurring just before finishing a 64 day marathon of Malcolm in the middle and Malcolm on the left-side. Then for an undisclosed reason you hold on tight to the phrase, "The truth hurts" not knowing why or knowing whether one day you will stumble upon a "why" that satisfies your savage seek for closure. Pain killers help. Painful killers hurt. Killers of pain help. Help on pain killers is informant. Help on painful killers is far too expensive for the lack of helpful hints that it contains. Simply stating, "good luck." Which isn't even a complete sentence. Just remember, that when in doubt, no one can be trusted. No one can give you the help that you need, except for CHA-CHA.
Insanely creative.