The dream was of a textured cerulean, indigo, plum tornado. I was the only witness so even the animals thought I was crazy. There was slobber in the coleslaw. Everything was barbecue and football and misplaced integers. I was crazier than a heat deprived iguana but still even so you know it was only a dream induced by Benadryl and Froot Loops.
I awoke in a familiar space. This was my bed. That was my ceiling. I could still smell the corn on the cob. I could still feel the ice cubes. The blue pulsating orb smeared its glow across the ceiling and told me some worthless information. Was it Aileen Wuornos? Maybe. Yes. The ghost of Aileen Wuornos didn't have anything didactic to impart so I didn't listen. This is more news I cannot use. I have to make it to Donut Ghetto by noon.
On the bus the drunk man grinned at me like it was Halloween and he was handing out free apples with special surprises inside. I sent him a mental telepathy postcard. I DON'T EAT RAZOR BLADES, BITCH. But soon we were at Strip Mall #777 (because we're all totally lucky). Bingo Hall. Taco Town. Soccer Balls R Us. Pretty Nails For Not Much Money. Pesos For Plasma. Sexy Time Shop. Dick Sucked To Satisfaction in Hour Or Less. Candy City. Donut Ghetto. My stop.
Cougar and Sally were smoking weed and the donuts were fresh from the oven, eager for glaze. That's where I came in. I snorted a few lines of sour apple Kool-Aid then put on my apron.
"Your hair is so dangerous. I mean...damn," Sally said. She thought she was cute in her dinosaur pajamas. Cougar dug her but no one else did. I didn't tell Sally to go fuck a Coca-Cola bottle (Mexican Coca-Cola is my favorite) but I was thinking it pretty hard.
After work I walked to the ditch behind the tire shop. Plastic Wal-Mart bags decorated all the trees and the sky was pretty with toxins.
I awoke in a familiar space. This was my bed. That was my ceiling. I could still smell the corn on the cob. I could still feel the ice cubes. The blue pulsating orb smeared its glow across the ceiling and told me some worthless information. Was it Aileen Wuornos? Maybe. Yes. The ghost of Aileen Wuornos didn't have anything didactic to impart so I didn't listen. This is more news I cannot use. I have to make it to Donut Ghetto by noon.
On the bus the drunk man grinned at me like it was Halloween and he was handing out free apples with special surprises inside. I sent him a mental telepathy postcard. I DON'T EAT RAZOR BLADES, BITCH. But soon we were at Strip Mall #777 (because we're all totally lucky). Bingo Hall. Taco Town. Soccer Balls R Us. Pretty Nails For Not Much Money. Pesos For Plasma. Sexy Time Shop. Dick Sucked To Satisfaction in Hour Or Less. Candy City. Donut Ghetto. My stop.
Cougar and Sally were smoking weed and the donuts were fresh from the oven, eager for glaze. That's where I came in. I snorted a few lines of sour apple Kool-Aid then put on my apron.
"Your hair is so dangerous. I mean...damn," Sally said. She thought she was cute in her dinosaur pajamas. Cougar dug her but no one else did. I didn't tell Sally to go fuck a Coca-Cola bottle (Mexican Coca-Cola is my favorite) but I was thinking it pretty hard.
After work I walked to the ditch behind the tire shop. Plastic Wal-Mart bags decorated all the trees and the sky was pretty with toxins.
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