My Mother Theresa/Godzilla instinct is Pavlovian.

It's always the same. I'll stomp your fucking roses trying to save your goddamn carrots. Where there should be puppies and flowers, there are ants and thorns and furthermore, because I feel as though I deserve puppies and flowers, I imagine they are present and accounted for, even though I full on know they went AWOL and are chillin' in Tahiti drinking alcohol out of coconuts.

I have so many processes and systems for managing my own mongooses, including yours into the system is only give me a 404 screen, every time, mon, clocks are never so accurate as they are in the islands. I try, know that, whether you think I am trying or not, I am. Always. No matter how epic my failure might be the time before and fully knowing no one in hell should trust me with the scalpel, much less the saline solution, I run into surgery every time screaming, "I can save him!!!" because, well, I am Superman and I know what's happening. Except for (RIGHT!) I am just a little bunny with an oversized cape and a basket of candy that everyone wants until they find out its laced with cyanide and contains concealed razors.
The only one I am saving is myself which happens Bill Murray-like, same bat time, same bat channel, today we shall learn how to Quilt and better appreciate the cactus.

What you see as curt, distant, angry, frustrated, judging, complacent, or (fill in the blank) is not consciously directed at you. It's for me, scrambled eggs. A random dice roll of emotion when the coding sequence dictating the face is missing a line or two. Grab bag of inappropriate responses to stimuli because restoring order is Priority Numbero Uno; the head is in the game, coach, but the rest mighta took a wrong turn back at Albuquerque. This was croquet? Shit, I have a 9 iron.
You can hand me my papers any time, doc.
I know where I came from. I know who I am. I know what I do. I know the mechanics of this duct taped head better than any wooden legged pirate, liquor soaked and talking of salvation. We needn't call it names, for purple and Texas are just as appropriate, its not the WORD, its the definition and with that batch of logic applied, we shall use "cake" from now on. Or Vagina because vagina is not used in enough sentences.

I can't help you. I can't fix you. My antibiotic may be your Kryptonite. In fact, it probably is. You may also hold my life preserver but never my anti-venom. Ride the tide. Damn the snakes.
What good - what is good? I distract. It's my job, I dig it, I am skilled at it and if you let it happen, you may be reminded of how unimportant the unnecessary really is and how good I am at actual classification; what matters is the moment, because in the end, its all you really ever have, the now. The then is unchangeable and the will be, may never ever come.

If I am largely unapologetic it is because I am sorry for more than you will ever understand or that will ever truly be my fault. It can be confusing to interpret when to speak, when you desire the words that fall from your lips to never ring hollow. It is not an excuse, it is a reason. It is as much as I can do. If the moon is late on your horizon, I wish it godspeed the next evening, whether the prayer is vocalized or chanted within my head. These are my wishes, always. Sometimes I imagine the thoughts trailing from my ears on a silver string to dance in your space, readable, decipherable, gilded with best intention. It would make everything so much easier. It will never be, though I'll still hope, like I do for my tiny monkeys in the backyard tree.

Tomorrow the Pope will still be Professor Pedophile and volcanoes shall continue to spew ash. We can donate to Save the Babies or Whales, or the random charity of your choice. The record player could desire Primal Scream. Maybe the next batch of beer will be made. I am planning in my head, all the ways to kick your ass at dominoes, whilst wearing a fedora and drinking wine. Baby cat, still sucks.

I can tap dance, wanna see me tap dance?

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