Just continue getting wasted. Drown yourself into a separate dimension. Speaking in tongues to your pals via digital communication. See me on this television in the camera? Left nut hanging out my whites, stuck to/gripping the leather couch. A grotto has gathered in the ass-crack canopy region. Sweat rolls down your nipple, and only wearing a light cardigan is either a good or bad choice. And you absorb yourself more in a world you can handle. Something a bit timid in access and accessible in thought. Projection at its more non-profound. What’s it called, like, it’s called like when you get so head-kicked the night before it rolls into the next morning? “Groovevateer” pops on your alarm and that growl just gets it right with your yawn. Maybe that’s your girlfriend. Maybe these are your shoes. And don’t forget your teeth, amirite?
Driving to work, dimensionally warped, and that guy in the car next to you: every fucking morning. It never seemed so blended in color and upbeat. Oh, what? There’s work to do here, huh? Okay-okay, Ima get right on this Top Female Executives website we call an honor, yeah. Ima write all this and see if Jackie got the fulfillment package. Get into Charlie’s desk and take all the meds at once. Fly beyond the brink of — shit, that’s right, you got Mickey’s meds in the car too. Cocktail, or save it for tonight’s into tomorrow’s gap of where did the night go? To think that you don’t get any more cultural than digital now. And native to the life are all that is trans. Digital Natives is trans. Very so. Fucking came out with a milli releases last year too. Aye-aye, that’s MY “shit god damn” moment.
That or just buy IT’S ALL POINT BLANK now via Beer On The Rug and sell it at $200 next year. :::::RESET:::::