To tell you the truth, there are some days I do not care to take the time to write in this journal. It's a hefty inconvenient hassle to word stuff, do all of that creating and crafting and such.
Today is exactly one of those days. I don't want to do it and I won't do it.
And if you don't like it, may your prostate doctor be a closet ventriloquist.
May over-sized wet-nosed hound dogs sniff your ever-present essence of chalupas.
May your favorite soup kitchen/laundromat ladle up a big bowl of Vegetables and Trousers.
May a brooding, disoriented hip hopper hop on your hip.
May the ghost in black of Johnny Cash narrate your medication regimen and beg for swag or a hit on Reese Witherspoon.
May The Brady Bunch force-feed you Marshamallows! Marshamallows! Marshamallows!
May Carlsbad Caverns go good just to ruin your visit.
May you never know the difference between stalactites and stalagmites and bullet bras.
May a plucky chipmunk burrow through your garden burrito.
May roving-eyed symphony musicians in unsightly stained cummerbunds gang-Debussy your date.
