putting the 'NO' in november.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
november got me again.
the suckiest month thwarted each and every attempt
at super-hottness and turbo-dope expertism.
11-11-11-?!!?
pretty much eleven kinds of sh!t-salad sandwiches.
it was interminably terrible, y'all.
three times over, and back again.
this is real life, documented.
it was so F*ing disappointing,
i sent myself to bed at immediately o'clock.
hard styles make hard hearts, kids.
and i've got a white mountain-hewed
grey granite golem imprisoned in my rib cage.
ouch.
my bad attitude started early, crept in, coiled up,
and kept at it until i crashed out.
the albie rock show had all the charm and wit of
a spanish inquisition witch trial.
and it turns out,
misery doesn't really enjoy entertaining that much.
i eschewed the comfort of company,
and did my dirt all by my lonely....
the only thing missing was artex
sinking in the swamp with me, duders.

---
dear november,
you win.
xoxo,
-albie
p.s.
suck my balls.
---

it's all really happening, neighbors,
each and every sour steaming heap of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

p.p.s.
it's impossible to look forward to anything
when you're an expert-level eagles' eggs nutrient activator
from the future,
because it's actually only ever an imperfect memory
hindered by hindsight.
perpetual motion, in a backward direction, y'all.
cold hearths,
cold hearts,
cold dinner,
cold nights.
ice age type raging stormswept savage gypsy tundrascape,
with post-full-moon inverse magnetism,
and a whole heaping helping of hard-style hypobaric
dents, dings, and depressions.
optimism is for deluded waterbaby pants.
fact.
What Is is what's up.
i should've guessed it, really.
i mean,
victory is wasted on good storytellers.
it's the failures that defines us, duders...

i'm on that high-contrast thick-outlined
definitive jux, ninjas.
i take defeat to eleven.