Dad's probably moving out.
I probably can't.
Not just because I'm unemployed.
I can't leave Mom alone.
Can I?
I can't make her a burden.
I can't be simply . . . beholden.
But codependency might bear some malt if it were allowed to germinate, right?
Probably not.
Not anything I'd want to brew and bottle, anyway . . .
. . . let alone, swallow it.
Applied for unemployment, today.
Yesterday, technically.
Today is an error in semantics.
Probably something profound, there.
A nice, little sentence to be misconstrued by the postmodern public, wanton for meaning in the smallest things.
Looking for signs, when they'd probably see them anyway . . . if they kept their eyes on the road.
I think I'm staring at the yellow, dotted lines.
Rhythm.
Dash - Dash - Dash - Dash
Yellow - Black - Yellow - Black
Link - Link - Link - Link
One - Two - Three - Four
Hit it, CeeJay!
I made some money, today.
I made a logo for a friend's website.
Not a whole lot of money.
But today is probably just an error in semantics.
I took money for it because I kind of hate doing that kind of thing.
One-Two-Three-Four
Your guts are like (&)
Do a drawing for yourself
Dash-Dash-Dash-Dash
A cartoon about the things you hate
Link-Link-Link-Link
Make your guts like (o)
Applied for unemployment, today.
A sponsorship from my worst enemy.
I should look up child molesters on the local Sex Offender Registry, knock on their doors and ask for donations.
At least there's a small chance that they could be reformed.
They're redeemable.
You can cut their balls off and make a good citizen of them.
You can't do that to a neo-socialist head nurse who doles out your regimen of police, taxes, wellfare and chemically treated water.
You especially can't do it now. Not when the head nurse is pretending to castrate itself.
Sometimes I just want the personal freedom of being the destroyer.
I don't want to put a bomb in the mailbox.
I want to be the mailbox. I want to deliver good news and bad news, all jumbled together in a cloud of upwardly mobile smoke and orange heat.
I want to be ironic.
I want to be an Abercrombie tee on a fly-infested, starving child with a distended belly and white crust in the corners of his mouth and eyes.
I applied for unemployment today.
It might mean nothing to you, but as far as the modernly conventional use of the word "irony" is concerned . . . it's pretty damn ironic.
But it's alright.
I've got a gallows humor deep in my belly that the weak of heart could mistake for a death rattle, sometimes.
ha ha ha - ah-choo.
chortle, chortle, snort.
"Chin up kid . . . things can only get better."
Are you implying this is as bad as things can get?
The pitch blackness before the rising dawn?
But we still have our health!
I haven't lost a limb.
Wait a little longer. Who knows, our butts might fall off.
Free food, right?
I probably can't.
Not just because I'm unemployed.
I can't leave Mom alone.
Can I?
I can't make her a burden.
I can't be simply . . . beholden.
But codependency might bear some malt if it were allowed to germinate, right?
Probably not.
Not anything I'd want to brew and bottle, anyway . . .
. . . let alone, swallow it.
Applied for unemployment, today.
Yesterday, technically.
Today is an error in semantics.
Probably something profound, there.
A nice, little sentence to be misconstrued by the postmodern public, wanton for meaning in the smallest things.
Looking for signs, when they'd probably see them anyway . . . if they kept their eyes on the road.
I think I'm staring at the yellow, dotted lines.
Rhythm.
Dash - Dash - Dash - Dash
Yellow - Black - Yellow - Black
Link - Link - Link - Link
One - Two - Three - Four
Hit it, CeeJay!
I made some money, today.
I made a logo for a friend's website.
Not a whole lot of money.
But today is probably just an error in semantics.
I took money for it because I kind of hate doing that kind of thing.
One-Two-Three-Four
Your guts are like (&)
Do a drawing for yourself
Dash-Dash-Dash-Dash
A cartoon about the things you hate
Link-Link-Link-Link
Make your guts like (o)
Applied for unemployment, today.
A sponsorship from my worst enemy.
I should look up child molesters on the local Sex Offender Registry, knock on their doors and ask for donations.
At least there's a small chance that they could be reformed.
They're redeemable.
You can cut their balls off and make a good citizen of them.
You can't do that to a neo-socialist head nurse who doles out your regimen of police, taxes, wellfare and chemically treated water.
You especially can't do it now. Not when the head nurse is pretending to castrate itself.
Sometimes I just want the personal freedom of being the destroyer.
I don't want to put a bomb in the mailbox.
I want to be the mailbox. I want to deliver good news and bad news, all jumbled together in a cloud of upwardly mobile smoke and orange heat.
I want to be ironic.
I want to be an Abercrombie tee on a fly-infested, starving child with a distended belly and white crust in the corners of his mouth and eyes.
I applied for unemployment today.
It might mean nothing to you, but as far as the modernly conventional use of the word "irony" is concerned . . . it's pretty damn ironic.
But it's alright.
I've got a gallows humor deep in my belly that the weak of heart could mistake for a death rattle, sometimes.
ha ha ha - ah-choo.
chortle, chortle, snort.
"Chin up kid . . . things can only get better."
Are you implying this is as bad as things can get?
The pitch blackness before the rising dawn?
But we still have our health!
I haven't lost a limb.
Wait a little longer. Who knows, our butts might fall off.
Free food, right?
I guess things can only get better :)
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