This is an arsenic dream, a whiplash death rattle.
This is the odor of 1,000 dead rats rotting, the spilled blood of man decaying inside.
This is laughter in doom, this is despair in bliss.
This is a pink sky glowing with the sharp scythe of the waxing crescent moon.
This is an accident waiting to happen. I have all the self-loathing of a wolf in sheep's in this carnival of carnivores, heaven help me, says Mr. Bragg.
He's right. But this is way too Alanis Morisette of me to
bloglish and not laugh.
2 comments:
I checked my sanity at the door. Will it be there when I leave? Mrs. L
I think you should start writing again, it seems to be therapeutic. Plus the content would be uber juicy & JUST MAYBE if you read over what you write you will realize how messed up this whole thing really is.
Sorry about the phone last night & thanks for listening to me harp about the Christian guy....even though your advice kind of sucked. {Ball cuping....Ummm ....No.} :)
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