seasons in the abyss.

rainy day off?
check.
scissors and magazines?
check.
glue stick?
check.
sharpened pencils?
check.
teleport?
check:

hahaha.
i do, in fact, buy magazines for collage times.
that's an actual thing.
yes, i am an adult male.
why?
oh.
well, as a a matter of fact.
i do not freak out over titles
like glamour or family circle.
i just get those from the discard pile at the post office.
...smart.
***********
...duders,
it's a tired and mired-down miserable morning
here in the woodsly goodness.
a tuesday of implicitly impregnable underimpressiveness.
the clouds are covering the whole flippin' place,
the droplets of cold and wet are drizzling down
from last night's dousing onto everything at ground level.
huh?
is there a mosquito-activational bloodsuck festival happening?
well,
i don't know about a festival;
i mean,
i don't see any pavillion tents or food vendors,
unless you count me and my dog,
in sweatshirt and harness,
providing ample cover, entertainment, and sustenance
for those minky, midgey, needlemouthed mutha-'uckers...
neighbors,
conditions are perfect for being sh!tty.
the elements have aligned and allied themselves
to a gray, grizzled, gristly, and grisly day.
-
dear former tropical storm alberto,
you are exactly what i'd expect.
you started weak and quit halfway,
staying just awful enough to ruin a potentially good thing,
but not expert enough to destroy it completely.
way to hurt the team by beating yourself.
xo,
albie
-
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
tropical stormtroops have rained down their doo-doo butter
and spoiled a work-free day.
so,
it's postcard clubhouse nutrients, instead, that will have to
see me through another 'nother empty set of hours.
crafty menfolk of the world,
embrace your true nature.
it's infinite,
and it'll just win in the end anyway.
yuck.
***********
cover-ups?
i guess so.
back to back attack of remediation-infused tattbombs?
uh-huh.
that's my new thing, kids.
fixing other peoples' sh!t-salad A*-hole decisions.
i create inconsequence, y'all.
feel free to F* up and get bad tattoos,
from whomever, wherever, of whatever-
some woodsly goodfellow is just waiting for y'all
to show up with a list of demands,
misspelled and mangled on your skin.
you need solutions,
i've got problems.
umm, wait.
is that right?
i think so.
***********
13 weak-sauce weeks.
my ninjas,
i'm normally numerologically disinclined towards a
superstitious assumption that thirteen is unlucky.
i mean,
tell that to every bar/bat mitzah celebrant, y'heard?
yeah.
i'm feeling it though.
13 weeks!
holy mutha-F*ing sh!t.
that's a mathematical three-month expanse
representing an adversely affected season of disorder.
a full season.
time keeps spanning,
but the cavernous cavity of calamitous catastrophe
just keeps getting bigger.
the gap can't ever be bridged when the hard-styles
omit pounding from their procedures in perpetuity.
it's not easy, neighbors.
but then again, when is it ever?
it's all really happening,
even the things that aren't;
never quiet, never soft.....7x13