START send me to the moon, banana-hands

Does anyone send telegrams anymore? Not the kind delivered by a purple gorilla for someone’s birthday, just a normal average everyday telegram. I want to receive one and have it contain some honest to good information I need to know. Something important. Time sensitive.

Attempt at Rasterizing Real Life Octopus Ends in Fine for 37 year old woman.

My neighbors gathered around their back doors silently listening to me loudly exclaiming, a very emotional tirade against the inner workings of the United States, heated snake tongue violently lashing about, fist thrown high in the air, breathless from the amount of words leaping out of my mouth without pause, when my beloved interrupts the madness of this late night psychotic anti-establishment moment to point out, simply, that I am not 37. Which I had been, indeed, exclaiming for the last few minutes. I am 35.
Seemed almost unnecessary to say much of anything after that. So I didnt. And I swear I heard a few screen doors shut after having calmly sashayed off my rickety little soap box.

Jungle cat claws 37 year old victim after offer of tuna fish sandwich was rejected for inclusion of sweet pickle relish.

You read, you speak, you think, you breathe, you dive, you devour, you gasp, you dream, you float, you weep, you slumber, you awaken, you wonder, you grow silent, you miss, you die silently inside, you bury it deeper, you lock it up, you throw away the key, you smile, and you buy a ticket to do it all again.

You write it all down and just keep ignoring the fact that there is a published chronological log of your cycle of insanity.

You laugh. You hope the world laughs with you.
You buy a gun. Just in case no one is.
You learn to shoot like Annie Oakley, you start wearing chaps everywhere, you always have a piece of hay sticking out of your mouth.
You full on challenge your spying neighbors to show downs in the street over healthcare and taxation legislation.
You laugh. Because your gun is made of foam. You cry. Because your neighbors, is not.
You wish you had bought a pack of cards and invited them over for beer instead.

Everyone likes beer.
(Even stupid fucking internet order, half-off deal, live monkeys.)

This blogpost has now ended STOP.