f.a.f.f.? t.m.i.t.r.a..

too much is the right amount.
even when it's wrong.
or,
at least,
all the way wrong for my bellyhole, anyway.
mmhhmm...
neighbors,
fried fryeburg fair food is expert.
that's just a thing that happens to be true despite seeming false.
and the best of it all, by far?
falafel.
obviously.
and what is the best day of the fair?
friday.
why friday?
oh man! i'm so glad you asked.
what?
no,
it's not because friday i'm in love.
i mean, i AM,
but that's nothing to do with dinnertime,\
and that's not just on friday, either...
friday is the best because it's the day i choose the biggest wrench,
i don't always mention that,
but i always make sure to doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
when it's friday at the fair,
it's time to tighten down and loosen up,
and generally torque myself all the way to eleven.
y'know?
yep.
that's the big action.
and it has a name, kids-
feel awful falafel friday.
my favorite self-destructive tradition.
there's no fixed number to consume,
just a subjective objective.
you keep going until you are broken, busted, and 'sgusting.
that's it.
now, for the record.
please check the three stages of the evening's evolution.
starting with the phase one teleport:

word up.
after three burly bombers, i was feelin' awesome.
which meant the object was clearly more...
phase two:

ugh.
feeling full.
the last bite of this bad boy sat exxxtra heavy inside my soul-hole.
ouch.
but,
that isn't the point.
the point is to take it up a whole other 'nother level,
and really prove that you are a filthy F*ing animal.
got it?
okay, then, guess what's next?
did you say phase three?
yes, friends, that's right...
phase three:

feeling awful.
absolutely barbaric and brutal and raging.
and that was just the indigestion.
never mind about the b-hole ragnarok this sort of thing creates.
and also,
while we're sort of on the subject....
falafel-induced dreamscapes are THE weirdest ones.
i've actually been up since four a.m.,
fueled by chick peas in every direction,
propelled into the future by the mighty powers of five furious falafels.
*
traditions matter if they bring you peace.
the repetition of ritual;
the comfort of familiar motions and methods;
the idea that there is meaning to commemorative demonstration....
and also,
the idea that most traditions are pretty stupid.
they're just things we do to honor the passage of time.
it's passing, quick and rough,
discomfited and comfortless,
like all the falafels inside my body.
it's all really happening,
and that's the grossest part....
nature wins every time;
never quiet, never soft.....