the brillo pad of brilliance, hammer of the dishwashing gods
keep at it.
cook.
sleep.
cook.
sleep.
dream of sharks eyes, their absolute focus on you. how does an idiot know he is such? what clues him in when the evidence room is bursting with flimsy reassurances and sneaky back talking? nothing. absolutely nothing. just lbs. of coke and bloody ziplocks, random weapons in a hermetically sealed stasis, that speak mysteriously in the idiots absence, conversations like low wattage bulbs in crusty refrigerators after the door has been closed. the idiot whistles a bland tune after locking up the room, his confidence absolutely firm and unwavering. blargh blargh blargh. keep to yourself moron.
fishing tomorrow!
cook.
sleep.
cook.
sleep.
dream of sharks eyes, their absolute focus on you. how does an idiot know he is such? what clues him in when the evidence room is bursting with flimsy reassurances and sneaky back talking? nothing. absolutely nothing. just lbs. of coke and bloody ziplocks, random weapons in a hermetically sealed stasis, that speak mysteriously in the idiots absence, conversations like low wattage bulbs in crusty refrigerators after the door has been closed. the idiot whistles a bland tune after locking up the room, his confidence absolutely firm and unwavering. blargh blargh blargh. keep to yourself moron.
fishing tomorrow!