bubbles?

hey neighbors,
i'm still reppin' a steady stream of expletives
about the bitterness of this bitter cold,
and the next-level bitterness of my own narrowed eyes
viewing the broader spectrum of life and labor and leisure
that unfolds along the jagged edges of a torn and encoded message
from the secret universal plans of spirit and memory.
damn.
that's a seriously tough outlook to launch at the onset of each day,
and it's also damned hard to offset with the daily doo-dooing of
janitorial tattoo endeavors.
y'know?
oh.
what i mean is-
when every day involves cleaning up a messy situation,
in a dirty toilet of humanity,
covering-up crapslapped zaps on necktards,
surrounded by hostile natives competing for choice assignments,
it becomes a dreadfully dreaded dirge that defies endurance.
got it?
yeah.
it's a hard style,
and the very dark days (literally, due to extreme cloud cover)
that deepen and downpour and deluge and drip and drop all this wintry worsening
down on the still-sleeping natural world of the woodsly goodness isn't helping
improve the beat and busted scene in any shape of size whatsoever.
ugh.
luckily,
there's always just enough incentive to avert an invective enfilade against
the poop-sprinkled pejorative people and places i'm encountering every day.
oof.
for example,
my buddy john.
he's such a nice dude,
and he's getting psyched on veganism,
and he gets plenty of zaps,
and he can carry on a conversation that isn't vapid and insipid,
and last, but not least,
he gets tongue-in-cheek keep-it-canada-type tattoos.
i can appreciate ALL of that.
trailer park boys imagery, in support of independent film making in nova scotia,
as a way of channeling the virtues and values of atlas shrugged.
...it's less of a stretch than you'd think,
plus, a freestyle plaidish shirt is more fun than i'd have figured.
check the bubbles-type teleport:

mmmmmmhmmmmmmm.
huh?
oh, no,
as a matter of fact,
i DON'T think i actually can take a deecent tattoo photo.
rules is rules.
but,
i still had a ton of fun hanging out and zippin' down almost all of this
with a loose-ish five-round needle group.
why would i do that?
the wrench, kids.
c'mon.
obviously.
*
then,
there was a plot twist, friends.
yup.
amber got then night off of work, in a last minute good-will gesture from on high.
can you guess what we did about a second berfday dinner?
word up.
the last of the falafel mix got balled on up,
just like my battle-beastly fists at the finale of my workday,
and we terrorized a whole 'nother 'nother set of seriously expert sandwiches.
teleport:

yumyum yumyum yum.
the tahini gets better blended every single time, too.
i'm just sayin',
the rare bite without a ball of falafel hottness still tastes pretty flippin' good,
and that's the mark of a truly elite treat.
teleport:

i LOVE 'em.
i think i've been upping the heat level with each one of these jauns, as well.
more sriracha means more fire,
and more fire means more desire
and more desire is all i  ever have anyway,
so the circuit stays closed,
and the cycle keeps perpetuating itself.....
except,
unlike that buddhist blubbering, i'll just keep feeding falafel into my face,
and that's where my nirvana resides.
ka-pow!
we shared one, too, kids.
awwwww.
is that cute, or gross?
i'm fine with either or both.
teleport:

crispier may be the key.
that texture was twice as activated as the others.
like i told you two weeks ago...
i'll keep killing it until i find my way to the eleventh level of  activation.
that's the only way.
*
i tricked you with a tattoo picture,
and i led y'all right back to falafels.
that's right.
i do what i do,
because my infinite nature is inescapable.
all the best intentions and all the intensive concentration
and all the ill-defined mundane and divine interventions
will never ever EVER derail that runaway trainwreck of true stories
and trying times.
damn.
this is What Is,
and there's no room for much else;
never quiet, never soft.....