Long night. Red Bull not such a good idea.
Took off face. Prepared for daily routine. Walked past landlord. Screaming child at her breast. Complained about hygiene. She smells of dozens of men, a human dumpster for the stuff babies are made of.
Rain. Angels pissing on the artifices of man, flushing out the gutters of humanity's filth, sex, and filth.
Lots of rain needed for that.
Saw Dreiberg, eating at fast food place. Big Mac. Bigger man. Soft and dumpy. Soon to take a dump.
Hungry. Decided to take a walk. Stopped by place called "Maggie Moo's." Sells cold, flavored milk products in delectable waffle cones. Potential for Oreos. Had to investigate further.
Pimple-faced high school students greet me with artificial smiles, showcasing their artificial dental appliances.
Asked me what I want. Strawberry Skydive? Chocolate 2 The Xtreme? Mt. St. Nutty? Cotton Candy Ski Jump?
Why are there so few normal flavors of ice cream left without marketing disorders?
Walk out with two cones - one vanilla, one chocolate. Separate. Don't mix. Combine separately in the dark corners of my digestive track, melting into one cohesive lava flow of milky goodness. Knew for a brief moment what bliss was like, like Romulus and Remus sucking at the teat of a cartoon cow, filling their bellies with milky delights as she stares off in silence, probably chewing hay or grass.
The smooth talkers and intellectuals will not be satisfied and ask for their Toffee Plunges and Udderly Butter Beboppers, cramming increasingly ridiculous lies down their insatiable gullets until they've realized they've gone too far.
The world will look up and shout, "feed us!" And I'll whisper, "no."
Went home. Took a Dreiberg.