i don't play around when it comes to falafel.
in other aspects of my world,
i'm somewhat lacking, or slightly slacking,
or generally backing off of the throttle.
that's due to external pressures more than any internal decompression.
i've got a barbarian boiler in my chest,
pumping out berserker fury and boundless energy at all times.
i get tired, i'm only human, or so i'm told,
but just behind my heavy-lidded eyes there's a crazy glare
and a thousand-mile stare ready to erupt out into the wider waking world.
there's a raging stormswept savage gypsy fire blazing away inside,
and there's only the limits of time and attention holding back a real inferno of
frenzied fresh-to-deathly doings.
i don't EVER play around when it comes to falafel.
and especially not when i'm paying top dollar to dominate a dose every day.
i'll repeat my top two goals for this week-
1.) to crush an unholy hell of a lot of sandwiches, quickly, and efficiently,
with no regard for personal digestive health or any attending physical blarpitude.
2.) to absolutely act like i don't know NObody.
i'm doing a fantastic job of both those things.
you can't see me with my blinders on when i'm there.
but go ahead, if you're there, too, and holler at your boy......
....and watch me completely ignore your F*ing face, bro.
why don't i go to see the blackberry preserves or the bunnies?
because that stuff isn't falafel.
and if it's not falafel, it's not relevant.
i'm on a tight sched', guys.
last night, for the sake of efficiency,
i ordered another 'nother trio right off the jump.
and that's when i realized that i had already eaten ten falafels this week.
anybody see the problem there?
MY falaf-game goes to eleven.
and so it did:
i was in and out, with only minor delays.
somebody will come right up to me.
it's someone you only see once a year.
that's cool, i guess.
especially when the conversation isn't strained, exactly,
but, it isn't a free-flowing communion of cooperative consonants either.
maybe next year, those dudes will blank ME.
more again tonight?
rules is rules,
and this is a beatles week of shark-gluttony and gutbusting grotesquerie.
more is better,
and too much is the right amount.
every day, i do a bunch of tattoos.
nothing heroic. nothing strenuous,
just tattzappin' some salty crapslaps for all these kooks and kids.
i come home a bit early and walk crabtree.
...that's because i love my little albatross necktie.
i head out to the fair,
and roundtrip around a rowdy batch of nomnoms.
when i get home, i scoop up the beast,
and cruise around with that terrible terrier,
all before i exorcise my flesh,
and exercise my meager musculature.
(i don't actually wanna blarp out, kids)
it makes for a full day.
i've gotta read a bit before bed.
i don't wanna get dumber either.
i'm a busy man, and while i may not be accomplishing anything,
i sure am doing a lot.
there's a kind of comfort in never having enough time.
this way, i'm not being lazy,
i'm just not getting anywhere.
i suppose falling asleep after running in place is better than atrophy, yes?
it's all really happening anyway.
hard styles are the only ones i rep;
never quiet, never soft.....