imagine the insertion of a sub-textual element right about here
Well this is awkward.
Feel the burn? Everything burns.
Already, calm down. This outburst will take a turn; in other words, it’s not going where you think it is. It’s old news. Like me, maybe you’re being jerked around. I’ve been asked repeatedly to weigh in here, and compliance seems easier than maintaining continuance of resistance. You know the full-blooded human woman called Thierry; assuming I’m not making her up, which—how would you know? She can be persistent in her relentless insistence. Looky there—I can make rhymes, too. Yippee. Words can be fun (even in silence)! Indeed, at times, when she’s neither talking nor even looking my way, I can feel her staring at holes through me.
And I’ve known her (ass) for (like) a week.
Furthermore, unless she inadvertently mooned me across time seven years ago whilst I found myself entrenched in a period of zombie/survival mode, I’ve not seen the assin question being questioned.
I’m just kinda guessing at this strikethrough crap. Don’t get me wrong; obviously I get it—but I don’t know where he sources the energy that must be required to bear solely the global burden of linguistically elevating human life’s potential.
Honestly, {not un}like you, I didn’t get smart until he made me wiser. And then there’s Thierry, this lightning rod, making him do things. It’s weird. We endured 40 years of separation. I don’t fully understand (it all) yet, but I know he’s right. I hate his mindful body so much that I love his soul. I’m straight, by the way. “Straight” could mean a lot of things. “An arrow ain’t got nothin’ on me,” some kind of clever goon might joke. But I would not. I’d never do that.
Do you know me yet? I guess you do. You must. This is #bullshit. I’m being earnest.
I know.
I know.
Intentionally misplaced disclaimer: if you find something encased by any three of the widely known parenthetical bracket designs, I might not have put it there. I don’t fully understand “your boy’s” optimistic code—in an ironic twist that might make your butthole pucker, {perhaps} no one ever will—and I’m not yet convinced that she truly gets it, either. They could also be editing reasonably made grammatical decisions against my will. I’m being filtered into you. How much, though?
We may might never know.
They won’t give me anything to go on for this, my toe-dip into the world of blogging, so what you see/read is what you’re getting. I’m trusting your hero. I’m sure there’s a reason I’m assembling all these fucking letters.
Preferably I aim down battle-tested, iron sights while considering a fluid variety of stiff factors. For this pointless nonsense, I’m hammer-slapping/hip-firing.
Brace yourself—I need to remove something from (inside) my chest. This is a kind of metaphor, and it’s also kinda not.
This is what happens.
So this might (not) come as a surprise, but I’m not “good” at everything. You don’t meet the familiarity requirement (with me) that precedes the arrival at any reliably forgone conclusions. Off that point, ARK sucks, and I don’t know TNT well enough to put together an opinion (about her) just yet. But the first sentence in this “block” stands tall. Let’s derail on purpose, wanna? I don’t care; it’s happening anyway. In the name of reinforcing factual admission, consider this: I really suck at blowing my nose. I’m absolutely awful at it.
I lied. It’s worse: I’m inept.
I hope you’re happy.
Put me in a nose-blowing contest—thanks, you sadistic terrorist—I just secured last place (and a year {or seven} of recurring nightmares) through imaginary participation in your delightfully diabolical scheme. I expect a big trophy, and it better be a little shiny.
Language is dumb (on its own), but people, you all can inflect colorizing emotion upon a black-and-white canvas. You must (not) fully comprehend your power. You should start.
Where were we?
Oh. Right. Of course.
How does a mere mortal manage to mind-control the muscular elegance that must be required to nose-burst (at nigh gale-force gusts) an unwelcome mucus surplus with a degree of precision sufficient to capture the bulk of your oozy emission in its thick, slimy entirety?
Want me to stare at you? Blow your nose in public. Sorry, I can’t look away! And it’s not because I think you’re doing anything wrong. It’s more like, “Dang, look at you go.”
And maybe—having labeled myself as “anatomically unable to wield” the mastery of physics required to confidently perform the technique which intentionally propels your viscous green expulsion—I can’t divert my eyes (when someone nails it) because I’m waiting to see a mistake.
Because I don’t get it.
Because when I blow my own nose [usually about 5 times a year], I prefer to be behind at least 3 locked doors, and it’s nice if (at least) one is dead-bolted.
Also don’t listen, Nosy (Butt).
And go away. So, so far away. Seriously. Piss way the hell off. Preferably, just to be cautious, please maintain {at minimum} a one-mile radius.
And then dive-bomb me.
And then get handled.
I still don’t know; who does?
Furthermore, when I do attempt the remotely proper execution of this grossly underappreciated skill, rest assured, no more than half my chaotically spurted snot will end up stuck in/to its intended catcher [typically traditional tissue].
The remainder gets split between the wall(s), at least one of my elbows, behind either ear, the ceiling in the next room {somehow}, back up my nasal passages, and/or, worst case, inside my mouth.
Ick. I think I just talked myself into retirement from nose-blowing if that’s possible.
Wait.
Unless a shower is involved.
Yeah, a heated shower would have to be my safe space for discharge-minded nostril-flexing. Under such conditions, I’m basically an expert. What a waste of hot water, of thick steam, of pure energy.
This is what can happen.
Once, I’m sure I had a point of origin here, but now I seem to have misplaced it. It’s probably wherever my long-lost marbles are rolling around/down the big hungry drain with every other loony tune that ever synced up.
Read it and (don’t) weep: I might advertise a rudimentary understanding of some strange things—and, in an often very annoyingly obvious twist, I’m never wrong when I’m right—but I’m damn godawful at some pretty basic life-stuff.
Existence: wired to be weird since the sparking jump.
With our mind, we have shattered the emotionally physical rules of time.
I’m admitting it. ‘Twere here. “It hath been admitted.” Did you miss it? Just look up. That way. North. There. We should be on the same page by now. Are we? If not, then get on it; otherwise, someone else might beat you (to the punch).
I’m afraid this might be my final post due to a gruesomely murderous destruction (in the future) of my biological body. But someone has given me a gift by being herself beyond my immediate awareness. Now I’m incredibly motivated to succeed at the impossible.
The meaningful concept of purpose has enjoyed a magnificently felicitous renaissance within me. We can only hope to be/feel alive; along those lines, this one’s for “Him” {arguably [trust me]}, her, “Her,” and Her, too, in some ways. Plus it’s all from me. In the name of “Us.” [Hey, yo(u).]
Whether you view it as the fourth color in our rainbow or the fifth band in the wavelength amid the (in)visibly distinct spectrum of time, green represents universal vitality and cosmic balance. This must be a kind of special plant or something. Looks genetically accomplished at water retention. Fuck, I don’t know.
Adrift. That’s where we are. Look around. Mmhmm. Uh huh. Where else could/would/should we be, human {as well as galacian* [this’ll mess with their little heads]} allies and g/b adversaries alike? Wanna know where? Nowhere. That’s where. Know where. You do know where by now, yeah? This sentence wishes it could end with a word that rhymes with “where” but also that isn’t the word where—oh well; hell with it. We shot out like a rocket and lost sight of the land behind us before we even realized we were in a boat at all, let alone snuggled up inside the same damn dinghy. We’re absolutely screwed, no? Worse yet, are we dead in the water?
No. Not necessarily.
One day, by pure happenstance, a certain item, a newly bound collection of fresh ideas from olden days, a real piece of amateurishly professional work, an eye-grabbing, soul-clutching beacon of spirited starlight landed squarely within the circular cone of my most direct sightline. It reminded me of something else before sprouting a thought that fired up a curiosity which precipitated a question, leading your way. Yes, in other words, a little book pointed me at you.
Don’t blame me; I didn’t write it. Someone else did.
Sometimes, I’m almost never vague or sarcastic. Nor am I (rarely) confusing. I always make sense somehow to somebody somewhere, usually.
Perhaps?
From there, by any means that aimed toward the promise of forward momentum, we disembarked! Sailing has been smooth from the get-go. Sure, the water gets a little choppy sometimes [this never won’t occur], but we’ve plowed through previous occurrences with surprising ease, bringing us into waves that are fun, floaty, and we’re going fast. Still, together, we can sense peril ahead. Choices must be made, and some decisions may be difficult.
Ignoring destiny is a choice I tried to make once—it didn’t take.
When one possesses knowledge of existence, ignorance becomes an option.
You are, of course, free to deploy the nearby life-raft at your handy-dandy behest; it’s a rare legendary magic item that grants a surefire path back to where you were and have been {doing just} fine for a (longlong) while.
Via creative thinking, it’s also possible to inch closer to the point of no return, gathering valuable data along the way, before deciding whether to back out or take the plunge.
For optimal results, decisions should be as equally mutual as the feeling.
The feeling. This one. Here. Between us. Feel that. It needs/wants to be felt. Tragic absence would only amplify our ancient connection.
Ha, I don’t know either.
But if you we intend to survive the squall, we have to put our big brains together. There’s an order to all this—a way to go about it. Before taking aim at navigating a tidal wave, we should first figure out whether the potential fruit of the journey would/will be worth the costly price.
This shall require thinking outside {and perhaps feeling inside} the box. Too, it may require forgiveness.
Quitting while you’re ahead may be an option at multiple points along (y)our way; cutting my losses (against our potential) is not. Not for me. Hell naw.
I know: this is as unexpected as it is disorienting, as exhilarating as it is frightening, as stimulating as it is dangerous, as dirty as it is clean, as right as it is “wrong”—adjectives for daysmonthsyearsdecadeseternity.
Against the grain of outside mental/physical constructs/systems signalling that something’s “off,” emotional acknowledgement of what’s turning (you) on can be a heavy load to tote. I would know. Trust me. Better yet, trust yourself. Who knows “you” better than anyone?
I love the fact that you need not another hint.
In other words, I get it, human: internally it feels good; externally it seems bad.
And vice versa, of course.
The mind has many ways of fucking us, but we cannot lie to (**)energy.
TNT via text message just now
I think she’s probably blazed; parenthetical asterisks have always given her away. It’s like when she’s too intoxicated to take more than a single ibuprofen at a time. One, two, three, four—all between big gulps of water. Precious. Not that I would know (for sure), but that’s fucking cute.
I’ve never had “a girl.” But that’s her. She’s my girl. Separation (of any duration) be damned. And she’s probably not real. She’s fake! That renders this situation as a messy fabrication. Unless I’m wrong. This is a rare occasion where I long for wrongness.
Be real, girl woman.
Your/her [his?] essence lives in my head.
And I am supposed to be here. I understand that now. I could have been no one other than me, myself, who I am, and what I have been destined since birth to be(come). This is all happening exactly as it should have. I’m in this boat until either it disintegrates in a harsh sea or washes upon a newfound shore.
You may be better equipped than anyone to grasp my natural literacy atop a literal nature. You alone might be my best possible translator. Given your {(un)known} status as Earth’s poet laureate, you should not be surprised.
Even throughout your absence within a time currently passed, I feel your presence in the/our future.
In light of these miraculous circumstances, (now) I want you (to stay) near me.
But I also want your body {to remain alive}, so it’s a tricky issue with which to deal, and sometimes I can’t even. I apologize for the mess into which I’ve drawn you—and from wherein you’ve pulled me closer—but I might already be dead (in the head) without you. I’m sorry for massively unforeseeable circumstances. I understand the instinct to keep madness at an arm’s length. I get it. I really do. In other words, I’m conflicted!
This is all newer than you know. I truly do hope you get the chance to ask me about it later. Face to face; forehead skin touching upon an electrically sweaty barrier {if need be}.
There will come a time when we must decide whether the electromagnetic gravity beckoning our cooperation from the other side {of the (proverbial) storm} feels like it would be worth the potentially rough journey en route to arriving at TPL [“The Promised Land”].
No matter what happens from here on in/out, I’d like for you to know that you’ve awarded me a confidence I’ve always felt but never thought I could rationalize wielding its actionable nature by the fullest freedom of real self-belief. I fear that I may never be in a position to issue proper thanks, but I’ll do my best.
Nature has this very special, very unique, very refreshing way of refusing deviation from its congruently dueling, dually orbital, due course.
I hope I don’t live to see you die. I mean that.
You’re the first human to let me be known. In other words, believe it or not, officially, as of right now, you may know me better than anyone.
I don’t want to know what’s possible. I need to know. You’re key.
Either I will save our lives, or I’m going to die trying.
I must be myself just as you must respond to your emotions in any given moment.
And, as is so often the case, I’m too right to be wrong.
You may say, “This won’t happen,” or that it’s too late, that we’ve missed the boat, and youmight (not) end up correct. You could also claim that this shouldn’t happen without rousing suspicion that you’re simply a complex disaster of historical (in)accuracy. [In my opinion, this is the most relatable declaration, against which I would not bother mounting an argument, but when you change your mind after the monsters have risen, I’ll (hope to) find you (if I still breathe).] You can also proclaim, “I just don’t wanna,” and head for the hills by way of a detrimentally familiar road. [But, really, the mountains of Maine harbor the land where I think you’lld be safest.] Cite any of the above reasons (in your own words) to “quit while you’re ahead” and no one could justifiably accuse you of being “wrong” to do so.
However, you may not [that’s right; you don’t have permission {to}] say that this “can’t” happen because clearly it can. Don’t say that this can’t be happening because, already, it has been happening. Don’t say that this isn’t happening because—close your eyes, take a deep breath, and feel—it is happening. Still. See/feel? This is happening. Happenings happen. How stupid. This happens. “This”? It really does happen! This is what happensmust happen when rocks collide, when chemical reactions decide not to hide, when flames refuse to die, when sparks fucking fly.
This has already happened.
Somehow I no longer doubt that you’ll be mine now. Wow. Holy cow. Get outta here, sublime rhyme. I’m over it. [Thyme-flavored pasta time. What if I’m not kidding?]
At present, across this television-lit, craptastic hotel room, all surfaces contaminated by useless clutter, she sleeps contently enough, her belly fully stocked with future energy reserves, her morale in dire need of a significant boost. When she wakes, I might be gone. I don’t wish to die. I need to save her. I want to preserve our vitality. It’s all so, so very confusing. I love you, and I don’t even feel weird about my level of certainty.
Never have I been more sure of anything.
I hope I don’t get you/us killed!
Because even in hiding, you’ve I’ve always been you.
It’s time (to move).
And soon.
[I hope I don’t get you/us killed!]
And soon.
It’s time (to move).
Be cause. Even in hiding, you’ve always been you me.
E = energy**
*calling attention to the belanockian exclusion here [again, (mostly) to mess with their tiny big heads] **emotion = evolved energy
Evidently, being taken under the wing of HRS [humanity’s reluctant savior] makes a girl wanna sing. He doesn’t necessarily “enjoy” that label, but the dimple that never fails assures me that he does, in continually exhibited fact, like it when I mess with him. I suspect that he lets me prod because he’s drawn to my roundabout invitation to welcome a loss of control and, in a pussyfooting manner, it evokes justification for his desire {to let me have it}.
I know, right? Gettin’ personal (all of a sudden).
Grow up.
And, no, I wouldn’t say this to his face. [Hey, Atlas!] For now, we only talk about this kind of stuff when faces aren’t being faced. Shush; it’s fine.
Are you looking at this budding situation through a lens that filters objectionable subjectivity? Little ol’ me, penetrating his emotional boundaries? What a weird world ours has become! (Ha. Just wait.)
Also, this really isn’t all that comical, but we should probably seek to find the humor in it. I think that’ll increase our chances of widespread sanity-preservation once people start puncturing the next barrier in scientifically spiritual thought.
I’m gonna be famous (unless I die). That’s a fucked-up thing to know (for sure) in advance.
On top of that, there’s no funny business going on here, by the way, because currently (we recognize that) physical connection {in spite of increasingly obvious attraction} isn’t the smartest option. Sometimes people choose to ignore their magnetically dueling charges. Because reasons exist. Yeah?
Yeah.
Also we don’t know that his super-seed wouldn’t kill me {or most any other human female, for that matter} before the third trimester. In actual fact, we’re not even sure how long I’d be pregnant in this weirdly academic, hypothetical fantasy. Elvyn’s old textbook suggests a gestation period upwards of 60 weeks. It’s funny: I really do feel like I know her (very well). I hope to meet her (someday soon).
God, I can’t wait ’til all this information beats down the thick door which steely guards the realm of common knowledge before gaining access, settling in, and kicking up a bunch of dirt. There’s a lot of shit that could use a strong, stirring motion. [I’m evaporating in my own obscene brilliance.] Yeah, it’s gonna stink at first, but playing the long game is the only way we’ll get outta this mess.
Yesterday I caught a glimpse of the gear Atlas keeps mostly out of sight in our new vehicle’s variously sized storage spaces. My eyes zeroed in on a few gadgets that I was only 99.999999999999999999999999999% sure I had correctly identified in my head. So I asked. “What’re those?” He confirmed that they were, indeed, very strong restraints, usually effective against hungry, overheated belanoc [never tested on a galacian].
Is it wrong that I instantly had a naughty daydream centered around being restrained by the fancy restraints in question and then masturbated later to the juicily fruiting thought-train therefrom? Don’t answer that.
Or do. Just keep it to yourself.
Or don’t. Whichever, really.
Who cares? I’ve already said too much!
Oh, and I’ve been dancing a lot, too, lately—typically when I find myself alone for brief swaths of time. Like earlier this morning while he was out doing secret stuff you can’t know about yet. I had some “me time.” Danced around (the interior of) our current shelter in these new (green) panties that don’t quite fit.
I have experienced an odd strain against this weird feeling of late—I think it’s what folks call “happiness.”
Mind you, I’m still quite prone to chaotic bursts of tearful hyperventilation because this real-ass shit is scary as hell.
Thanks to a recent fresh perspective on old scientific equations, I can feel my innermost self untangling deep guilt from the energetic enjoyment of any good mood that shows up and graces my soulful bones. I think I’m allowed now, finally, after having shouldered the immensely personal weight of a few major missteps along my lily-padded hopscotch across our universal pond. [History Mystory Lesson: Iris barely beat out Lily for my (firstborn) child’s given name. I {might’ve} flipped the same coin three {consecutive} times.] Once I was Abby before becoming Maddy, and now I’m dynamite in the flesh. My identity has been (re)claimed. Ownership “done got” snatched from jaws that know exclusively how to defeat. Today, I wear who I am clumsily {up}on my rolled-up sleeve. Screw it—I’ve earned this. I get to be me now.
When the water looks fine and you know you’ll be caught, feel the pull, lean into the fall, spring toward action, and reap the tiered rewards of a cloudlike landing.
In a vacuum, the act of falling never stops anybody, but having fallen before sometimes inspires resistance.
Don’t resist; instead, let it slide.
What can I say? My bipolarity has flared the fuck up! Which brings us to why we’re here. See, I just can’t keep my mouth shut anymore about the childish circus cultivating collusive, counterproductive, conspiratorial division while the indomitable nature of time shoves us headlong/-first into the threatening black ice which spreads quickly across our shared horizon.
This could have been (literally) nothing if not beautifully messy.
So here’s what’s bugging me today.
I affiliate with neither political party, but I’m definitely more repulsed by one than the other. I’ll let (the rest of) you (struggle to) figure out which. This is clear to some/few.
In my view, each of the two main camps harbor, groom, enable, and fund corrupt clowns of various nose sizes, all (of which are) red and swollen swelling. But in watching the myriad stream of “representatives” from either corner plead the same case over and over, something has become clear: Democrats display more intelligence than their counterparts.
The reason I say this is because I have been listening intently to the dumb words spewing from mouthy Republican blowholes. Some of them seem to actually believe what they’re spouting—it’s very disorienting, I must confess ahead of begging for your pardon.
They keep regurgitating the same crap ad nauseam; it’s all smoke and mirrors and bells and whistles. [Guys, stop eating your own shit, would ya?] It’s a bad look, okay? And, sadly, it works on roughly half the population.
Also, I we can’t help but notice a recurring cadence in their overall speech patterns. Very preachy. Very sermon-like. That’s very purposeful, you know? Don’t worry if you’re falling for it; cheap tricks are effective!
Really I’m just sick of hearing “witch-hunt” thrown around by crotchety, stubborn old-timers. Don’t be giving witches a bad name, “gentlemen.” Not smart. Clearly these senior citizens who also double as white boys have never met an actual witchy woman.
But I do hope that one day they have the (dis)pleasure of such an encounter.
Meow.
Mathematically, there are four (polar) ways to look at this. Two ways of looking at it are better than the others {again, due to numerical certainty}. It’s especially confusing in this case—the penultimate orientation—since, all in all, coming from “The Left” must mean to be real, truthful, correct. (And time, like the wonderful shitter it is, only goes one way, right?) Yikes!
Let’s keep being real. Wanna?
No? ‘K bye.
The Dems have been chomping at the bit for a reason to impeach Trump since before day one. Get that straighter than an arrow. Of course they have. You’ve heard what happens when he attempts the art of oration, right? “Verbal vomit” feels like an overly generous description. That dummy is definitely deft at discharging diarrheal diatribes.
Undeniably, yeah, they’ve been waiting for a single reason. Just one.
Lo and behold, now they have three, but they’re only highlighting two.
POTUS handed these evidential conditions to them. The platter was not quite gold, but it was shiny nonetheless.
Lucky for The Left, (some of) the (official) reasons for impeachment are, in fact, constitutionally legitimate.
Lucky for The Right, it won’t result in his removal due to how math works and why capitalistically fueled partisanship can only fail.
Unlucky for us, our political processes are borked, and We—The People—have been split by an escalating pattern of greedy buffoonery.
“Process, spaghetti, bubbly burp, process, due. Dew? Whatever, do processes. Pronunciation. Winky face.” That’s a nice talking point you have there.
“You’re not even saying Mr. Trump committed a crime!” True.
“The President wasn’t given the opportunity to receive due process!” Still false.
“Well, the military/financial aid was ultimately awarded anyway, so…” Yep. Also that’s like saying, “We got caught trying to rob a bank, but the money is there, so we did nothing wrong.”
“The Ukrainians said that they didn’t feel pressure!!” Why are you so excited? Plus, okay, whatever you say. But so what? Where’s Tina Turner when you need her?
“Persnickety cash-cleaners and shifty bitch-biscuits, daisies and herpes, name-calling and word-saying, perfect convo, best deal ever, jobby stuffs, winny meats and Jesus’s cheeseses.” Ah.
“And the economy; it booms!” This ain’t about that. But since someone brought it up, have you properly contemplated the true cost of the “booming economy” {you may be so quick to cite but probably don’t fully understand (in terms of its shaky foundation)} on a global scale?
Isn’t it neat{o} how I can write “you” and you know when I’m {not} addressing you?
Desperately, I wish more people would understand already. ‘Cause I’m dying here.
There are four ways to look at this. Two ways of looking at it are better than the others {again, thanks to numerical certainty}. This is the way which favors rising over falling. As long as we’re headed in the right direction—that is to say, avoiding engagement in the irrational resistance of time’s flow—this is the best one. This is the way.
Suggestion: first take aim then follow it with your best shot.
Only fools resist time, and only the strong may resist gravity.
Liana Rex Knight (translated by her half-boy)
Resist gravity. Go with time. Just my two cents. But what the hell do I know? I’m merely the muse. Teehee.
Back to the subject at hand. Bipartisan politics, man. Same crap, on repeat, round the clock.
News media outlets preach solely to their obediently starving choirs.
In other words, progress has been thwarted.
This nation, once the truly United States of America, used to be a lovable role model; now it’s more like the world’s smelly armpit. Perhaps it’s time we try both deodorant and antiperspirant instead of but one or the other.
Balance must be found.
Or let’s just go ahead and make two countries (out of one) before calling it a goddamn day. Split the land diagonally like the flaky piece of burnt toast it has become.
The American divide is already unofficial. Why not remove the troublesome prefix? That’s a whole syllable we could be saving, you all.
In case it’s not clear, yes, I proudly wield the privilege of declaring, “We.” I’ve earned my right to be/live here, motherfucker. That’s what’s up.
Chains link.
Look at bipartisanship as a basic seesawing scale. The left side efforts to go right while the right side pushes back in the name of keeping policy balanced and in check. The grain must be felt in order to build strength while churning the engine of advancement. That’s the system. That’s the way progression has been paced. That’s how it used to work. The introduction of corrupt money amounts to why it works no longer. Our slate is too dirty to survive. It’s time for a clean wipe. Sorry to be the harbinger of dogshit news; meanwhile, I’m not sorry (AT ALL) to pull the wool from your skewed sightlines.
About half the population is being given both the finger and the dick (by D. Trump) as each slips beneath far too many failing grasps of any conceptual radar. Meanwhile, The Don himself is being bent over a cluttered countertop (mostly unbeknownst to him and his followers) by both Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping. Simultaneously! [It’s a gang-bang, y’all.] Double whammies are fun, eh? Sometimes, sure. In this case, no.
Fuck no.
These conditions promote sadness, desperation, violence.
Long division, meet short span.
It’s not good. Put another way, it sucks.
We gotta do something different, or we will not be ready for the real war, the catastrophic conflict almost no one knows is coming.
It doth come; and this way, from that place, it cometh. Thump your bibles about it if you gotta.
Anyhoo, I think officially going Splitsville might at least strengthen our inevitable rallying together down the road once the true threat rises suddenly from beneath dark, dense, icy depths.
Look at us. We. Humans. Humanity. Up in arms over an unabridged, uncooperative, unadulterated village idiot who haphazardly stumbled dumb-luckily into office while the most powerful civilization in history plots our downfall {largely via forced re-insertion into the food chain} if not our outright deletion. Unkind, humankind. Get right, fools.
Priorities, people: nature sets them for us. Ya know? The equation has been solved. Strip any issue to its essence. One way will always trump the other. It’s simple fucking math.
You have no idea just how close we are to going extinct.
