Can someone tell me how much is too much lube? Because the accordian squirt bottle tells only truths.

Let's discombobulate!

I used to be so good at finding a spot to park and write, and, yes, usually a park because reality knows how to keep it real, yo. Goddamn getting stuck behind the short bus stop sign, captive rapt audience to a homecoming parade in honor of hydraulic lift hiss happiness with the main float featuring a daughter, whose cripple is on the outside and a dad, who looked like a coach. From what I remember.

I always find it a sad thing that success gets rewarded, more and before, suffering gets noticed. Something about priorities, something about shame, something about humanity, ending on something about getting over it.

But seriously, is this what life is like for everyone else? Useless as a spare part.

Idling. Stalling. A face like yours. Thinking an awful lot about things. My imaginary internal bleeding and your real internal bleeding. An open letter, a plea, a missive, a valentine, on clearance. Maybe I've too delicate a constitution. Lots more hookers and old people 'round here. From what I remember.
I think there's too much earwax in my ears, or something, because I can't understand people too good lately. Because I believe there must be a physiological basis for our emotions, like having a heart. From what I remember.

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