seven-deuce.

i must have a special gland, i think.
no,
not a musky dusky stinkbomb spray gland,
i'm not yet a skunky monkey,
or an ass-blastin' territory marky-marker.
the gland i'm referring to possibly possessing
is a far more specialized organ.
the depressingly miserable movie picking gland.
seriously.
i haven't picked up a film that didn't act as happiness ipecac
in months.
as soon as i read the back of the box;
(yeah, i said the box, not the online plot synopsis
....i'm not crackery enough for netflix)
i think to myself, "hey, this might be good".
and it never is.
never ever, even.
instead, i suffer through hours of dearthy mirthlesness.
with happy endings only in the sense that i'm happy
because it's finally over.
and you know i can't not finish them jawns...
time after time.
it's so out of control that i'm considering radical surgery
to remove the offending apparatus.
worse than golgi-type sh!t;
art-film intervention is what i need.
some mindless bro comedy, maybe.
something.


in other news,
tomorrow is the big day.
the anniversary of my truest love's nascence.
i'm psyched.
and i'm grateful.
i mean,
i couldn't ask for a better better half.
whole heartedly, even, at that.
there had better be cake, ninjas;
never quiet, never soft...