I like Pens

Whenever I feel like writing these things down, I never have any scrolls.  I look around, and it seems like the wild mild west.  No pens, anywhere.  Plenty of plague, cigarettes and iPlaids.  Get old-fashioned, people.  Save the sweet stuff that guys named Bartholomew and Leslie dreamed up.  Dip some metal in some earth blood and indigo your self some cottage fries.  Can't you recall a time of bliss?  A time of wet slacks and paper stacks, stories laid out for eyeballs, hands reaching towards the vanilla manillas to read aloud the tales of importance that great men dream up while they're fucking their favorite hand?  Classic.

Man, I could scream on this for days about weeks.  How can I be so recluse?  Mediocre josh villain I am, there is nothing I can do about it.  Sometimes there are no tools to make my words true realities.  Nothing but the possibility of piercing myself with myself and writing in my own life gravy onto some fake-ass temporary book walls, or faces of children.  Like, I don't have the time to do this.  I'm important and probably late for a kissing regret.

Maybe I'll let myself prepare next time, I gotta be writing.  Bibles didn't make it this far without some hairnet-faceted thumb jockey scribbling out his lucid and fiery no-bake recipes for Josiah windbreakers.  Think about it.  Johnny Moses and those ibuprofen tablets didn't pull any weight without the use of some Rose Art Spirograph facsimile, come on.  How commanding do you think he could've been coming down from that TCBY with mint pistachio on his cock cave of a mouth, nothing but shit smells on his jacket and a quivering face, plea-heckling to those poor dick-breathers that he was gonna hafta tell them something he kinda sorta remembered.  Not very at all much.  Asshole.

And OH MY GOD speaking of corn specials, whatever became of the stenographer?  I thought people had that fucking job!  I was looking in Craig's Bag, and I didn't see any notes about want adds or want bads.  I couldn't find any buyemsellems about people who would just write what you said, following your mouth with their pens like they would probably follow Jesus's bloodied guitar case to an El Camino rally.  Important.  I was on this so-called "Craig Mack" and all I saw were sluttish whispers about meeting people on secret planes of existence, where the half trolls and whole grubbies of any given hemisphere could secretly secrete about each other from the comfort of whatever.

See the included example:

To a Lonesome Pastry in the west side east Starblush Cafe:

I think it was Thursday because my rash was gone, whatever.  I saw you there, sipping your drinks, eating your crumbs off the finest China.  I'm Japanese, so I can relate. I was there then, I know you felt me.  My mouth was wet from watching you move yours.  Call me sometime, I want kids and I know how to use my dick!!!

Hauntingly yours,

Johnny Gunnuhrape

And furthermore, when people use this service, they expect reality to become great.  Shit doesn't work like that people.  If you use cool things on the internet but your at-home life is full of faggotry, you are still an asshole.  Blogs are like that too.  Blogs are for Morks who can't even think of their own line of denim tooth drips.  So I'm supposed to read all of your finger vomit and only visualize what you want me to think about?  Even if I can tell by your cyber codes that you are just a dirty spatula waiting to flip me over and make my booty go?  No.

I'm so mad I can't even write.

BRUH

yea i guess i'll blog again.

or maybe eat a hog with some loz injes.

hope i find a pig in the sausage den.

if you were in tune, you'd have future found out about the future of your town.

whatever measle ridden fuck town you live in.

a town where they play the music from ocarina of time constantly.

now open your eyes, you are the leader of the town.

whats your first order of breakfast, or bussiness?

or execute somebody.

its like jail, execute someone first, or they hire gov't rapers to i guess love you.

ancient love.

pit two horses against each other, you get country chess.

pit two beers against each other, everybody wins.

...breasts and chins, whichever wins can peel the best of brims.

banana hat gilderoy. act like a fat dick and fill the boy.

but please don't.

secondary colors are hated for a reason. duh.

only one is right...green. Ten people might like green to every ten people who are somewhat indifferent.

Bruh, i uff with the green.

one could label me a GREENINVESTOR.