This April did some damage. That cold snap that's just now crawling away, like the sated cobra, was a real cruel trick. It completely fucked up my physical and mental conditioning, which is one of the few things in daily life that I am still able to value in the hail storms and shit storms ralfed forth by nature and Man. The weather has been like a case of crabs, and then there is the human condition to try to help other people with. Trust my advice is better than my mood. I'm sulking.
It snowed, quite bitter and unusual for this time of year, and then there is the too personal emo blunders about love. Spring is supposed to be the time of year lovers meet, greet and screw. Minus companionship, this April could be exceptionally hostile. Not only are hermits of both genders limited to self-serve hand jobs of one kind or other, but green house gasses just couldn't stave off an arctic air mass. It will cost more this year to run the god damn furnace, and people are locked into Orwellian family structures all guaranteed like a lawn mower from Walmart to keep your lawn looking acceptable. I don't believe that love is what it used to be, before the Soft Serve Revolution. Now that the media has completely usurped the human spirit, people meet and greet in much same way as in an ant colony. And I live in a district where everyone is secreting the wrong kind of pheramones. We don't fucking get along too ass-fucking well. Note the homicide rate.
It is for these and other circumstances that this April reminded me too fucking often of the epic poem, The Wasteland, by T.S. Elliot. The prick was a genius. A motherfucking genius. Wastelands. There are tons of them. And cruel months. February usually busts my royal equipment. A truly hot July can fuck you up. If we aren't freezing, we are dehydrating and getting a brain-demolishing case of heat stroke. This April has been bad enough so far to put it's picture up at the post office.
The weather is improving. The gloom will pass. I'll get my royal shit back up to snuff before too much longer. But this shit-ass April is one cruel bastard. Great poem, Mr. Elliot, and an obscene hand gesture at the first two weeks of this defective, sadistic month. Fucking hell I hope it gets warm before the wasteland gets any more depressing. You can read the poem, The Wasteland by palpitating the link below. It's depressing, too.
http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html
It snowed, quite bitter and unusual for this time of year, and then there is the too personal emo blunders about love. Spring is supposed to be the time of year lovers meet, greet and screw. Minus companionship, this April could be exceptionally hostile. Not only are hermits of both genders limited to self-serve hand jobs of one kind or other, but green house gasses just couldn't stave off an arctic air mass. It will cost more this year to run the god damn furnace, and people are locked into Orwellian family structures all guaranteed like a lawn mower from Walmart to keep your lawn looking acceptable. I don't believe that love is what it used to be, before the Soft Serve Revolution. Now that the media has completely usurped the human spirit, people meet and greet in much same way as in an ant colony. And I live in a district where everyone is secreting the wrong kind of pheramones. We don't fucking get along too ass-fucking well. Note the homicide rate.
It is for these and other circumstances that this April reminded me too fucking often of the epic poem, The Wasteland, by T.S. Elliot. The prick was a genius. A motherfucking genius. Wastelands. There are tons of them. And cruel months. February usually busts my royal equipment. A truly hot July can fuck you up. If we aren't freezing, we are dehydrating and getting a brain-demolishing case of heat stroke. This April has been bad enough so far to put it's picture up at the post office.
The weather is improving. The gloom will pass. I'll get my royal shit back up to snuff before too much longer. But this shit-ass April is one cruel bastard. Great poem, Mr. Elliot, and an obscene hand gesture at the first two weeks of this defective, sadistic month. Fucking hell I hope it gets warm before the wasteland gets any more depressing. You can read the poem, The Wasteland by palpitating the link below. It's depressing, too.
http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html
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