I write too much.
This will be brief I assure you.
Dizzy Rascal (Not Dizzy Rascal) and I turned left on Clarkson street. We bumbled over cobblestone and picked up a pink laptop bag and listen to strikingly attractive Japanese actors spout cliche lines from old Westerns. I smoked a cantaloupe.
I made it up to Massachusetts. I was in the Bean town for a night, watched In Bruges on a huge ghost sheet while munching on klonopin and then spent an hour doodling with an omnichord. Sounded good to me, but even the deaf starved dogs outside asked me to stop.
I four wheeled with a professor of theater on the cape in East Orleans. 15 psi and tracking through murky salt marshes with Earnest Sewn Jeans rolled up just below the knees.
I then went to Clark in Worcester to meet a room full of beating warm hearts and ate a cantalope instead of smoking one. I drank 35% Panamanian firewater from Pedasi's largest supermarket. I got a soap holder there too.
I chewed my Clonezapam tablets and fell asleep to Govinda Hare and work up ate Lebanese and by four o'clock and made it to teach five minutes late and couldn't do a handstand like I did in a park named after someone named Matthew in South Norwalk.
Rain Lounge is not worth the $7 cover. Everything is what you make it. Be here now, and I certainly wasn't then.
I was stopped by police who made me perform cirque du soleil to prove I hadn't been drinking. He deemed me adequate drive. He must have been twelve.
We ended up at a diner. I ate BLUEBERRY PANCAKES, he ate GRIDDLE CAKES.
