happy 4th of july, suckers.

the bag full of crappy goodness: an insomniac’s curse. pimping pimplets. ecstatic goo. BFS LSS. dirty garments. sprinting thoughts. bloodshoot eyeballs. stunted bones.

i’m not a gothic vamp or a shiny-black-coated-holding-some-cuffs-and-a-whip type of girl or a laceration-addicted hoodlum, just so you know.

living in greenwich meridian time in this oven-like equatorial country dominates the bat kingdom. going overboard the nocturnal dimension creates a psychological wave of abyss and anonymity. ergo it mutates people into sola iced tea-craving zombies who don’t even know what they are talking about even though they’ve just repeated themselves in one sentence. inhale. exhale.

some power nap’s dream is about a chinovela. whatever. time to snooze, finally. i wrote that during the fourth hour of this day to make me sleep. no plans for today but to do anything productive. i’m desperate. add lifting my butt up to get dressed to take tita daisy out to dinner. toodles.


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