Crimes Against Hugh’s Manatees
You’re an idiot if you think for a second you understand.
Just leave me a lone some more. It’s easier and safer this way.
Trying to fall asleep to the faint sounds of Metalocalypse [intelligent choice], I overhear this shit:
Skwisgaar Skwigelf: This is a complete and total, you know, sausage festival.
Toki Wartooth: I love sausage festival!
Skwisgaar Skwigelf: What?
Toki Wartooth: Like in Vienna.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf: No, no, Toki, that was a sausage festival.
Toki Wartooth: Yeah, that was good.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf: Yeah. It was the Vienna pork saus—um, no, this means that there’s no good-looking ladies to put you-know-what intoside of them.
Toki Wartooth: The sausage?
Skwisgaar Skwigelf: … Yeah. Anyway, what were you talking about, like, a second ago? I’m sorry I cut you off.
Toki Wartooth: Oh, I gots to make something for Murderface. I gonna make him a macaroni murder lady.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf: I’m sure he’ll hate that. Eh, pardon me.
I laughed out loud and gave up on sleep. Thank God for Cartoon Nework. And good good people.
They’re honestly everywhere.
I’ve only seen him a few times; he’s mean. That’s right, lowercase for you, asshole.
It makes no sense. It’s not fucking fair. All I want to do is cry for days. But I don’t want to be a heaving animal. I don’t want to go to class because I know I’ll cry. All vulnerable and alone with just my sensations. All I have is this crater in my chest with names etched in the sides.
The worst maybe is the guilt. It’s not fair that they were robbed. Life is the gift. Why wasn’t I robbed? Why am I so worthy? I’m not. I just don’t understand.
Today’s my Brother’s birthday [I love you, Cory]. I should be writing a blog about his wonder. But I don’t really know him. Like you don’t really know me.
I didn’t really know her.
Rest in Peace,
It’s not fair.
I believe grammar is meant to be our tool. The rules do not apply unless you need them to. I don’t. I love sentence fragments for emphasis. Just to get your attention. Punctuation is my bitch. I’ve learned from the best:
yes is a pleasant country:
let’s open the year
both is the very weather
when violets appear
love is a deeper season
my sweet one
(and april’s where we’re)
- e.e. cummings
Do what you want.
I wish that we communicated in musical notes instead of words. There’d be no doubt about how I felt. There’d be no such thing as a lie. You’d hear my pitch and know my soul. We’d be dolphins swimming in our own symphony.