market exploration for children’s books involving madwomen.

relaxing in my own ambitions.. kind for I think I’ve run out of ambitions.

and in my current retiree-lifestyle and all of the semi-sensational living it entails,

I am sporting my walker one more time and I shake it at the kids,

what with my crumpets and daisies falling the hell apart, 

as I consider if I could successfully pull a u-turn yet in the middle of midday traffic.

You know what? for me these are new lows, and I wonder now how much further south can we collectively go? we’ll fucking sort that out before the night is done, aye tumblr?

Everytime I come to this site, the schizoid nerve endings seem to be growing more heads. And we’ll reblog ourselves into full-color bulimia.

You see while I have too much time on my hands, am devoutly broke and deviantly desperate & bored, and barring my latent desires of invading the local pool to supplant suburban chupamadres and their spawn, I am not yet kerraft’ing any great plots or plans, nor can I really even take my own blogging that seriously..

is it a lack of commitment or can we collectively realize a slick-looking blog doesn’t really make you appear any slicker?

there’s way more actually I have to say, I just have yet to decide that tumbling my serious thoughts is something I can take seriously.

I realize I’m part-giant fly and part gnat and can’t manage 5 laps at the pool without getting out of bref, and then find myself breaking into pond-deep analysis of the blindspots of collective priorities…. whereby I again realize that the literal fork sticking in the road for the huge manatee might be in my eye, (on sale at bed, bath, and 30 steps beyond…)

now this goes on for awhile until the thoughts graduate to “we’re all fucked…”, and I start imagining sensational clown-like suicides.

A little too much febreze in the virgin mojito, and mental incontinence on my part? perschnapps.

I imagine thousands of old timey cats defocating all over one more plastic lawnchair.

Now barring absolute panic, less then manic, and these desires to hurl myself into a furrowed oblivion at the mere suggestion of another button to press instead of forming a thought.

STOP, internet.

I’m tired.

don’t you understand?

tired.

I was sincere once, and I think you were too.

and this too shall pass (but not quickly enough….?)