Lip Disease, or the Whores hustle and the Hustlers whore

[hotcyborgaction]

In about fourteen hours I should be rollin' the caddy to Chicago. This is exactly what I need. I need to glide on asphalt and concrete abominations, riding high on American luxury, aviators filtering my eyes from the glare of the stares of beasts and men. I need to get out of Minnesota, ideally out of the Midwest, but Chicago is cool enough. Its everyone who wants more than they are willing to give, its this fucking climate: the unfortunate damp-cold that gets under my skin and won't vacate. I've reached a point where I want to spend more time sleeping than awake as my dreams reveal more than my waking self could ever muster. Everyone and my subconscious is telling me to jump ship, the tumultuous waters are safer than the jelly fish infested inflatable raft I crawled onto. Sharks don't sleep. People use that fact to say that sharks are vicious creatures, mindless automatons bent on ultra violence, yet I think Jelly fish are worse. They just float along and strike whomever gets close enough to them and mistakes their pleasant demeanor for benevolence, their poison is a debilitating pain, slow to act and cruel. They sleep just fine; nothing affects their dance along the waves. A shark will tear you apart for food, due to an insatiable appetite they were born with, while a jellyfish will silently infiltrate your blood and make you feel like you want to die for no reason other than you got in its way. A net of the fuckers has snagged me in in a second gossamer skin, every movement brings a fresh volley of stings across my already tormented mind. I'm going to swan dive onto the highway... I'm done with this metaphor.

I need to do my laundry and clean my hovel. I need to finish reading the book I started. I need to pack. People take too much time to pack, like its some sort of monumental task that warrants spending half a day in planning and carefully folding a dozen shirts and slacks you will never end up wearing.