It's Friday, the noise machine has been repaired, and I can't hear well enough to see what I'm writing.
It's Friday, the noise machine has been repaired, and I'm wondering if it's too late to die of tuberculosis. Has something to do with potatoes, right?
It's Friday, the noise machine has been repaired, and I've been masturbating all week while waiting for the bus to work. Tired now, really tired, and nothing to show for it, except this lousy arrest warrant.
It's Friday, the noise machine has been repaired, and even my pants are getting rumbly. If I were a lizard, I probably wouldn't notice so much. Or a snake. Snakes are all deaf, I hear. I hear you, deaf snake, and I'll raise you two dead mice, see if that helps.
It's Friday, the noise machine has been repaired, and something just fell off that building across the street. Too big to be a mouse, too small to be a crocodile, to odorous to be approachable, too wet to be dry, too squishy to be friends with.
Fridays always arrive early. That's why Saturdays never catch up with them. That's the reason, I think.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@gmail.com
Me? Same as always.
