ejaculate, and disperse

To the extent of small favours. Agree with me.

Frozen food aisle. Frozen crap aisle.

My stomach, my guts are twisting and turning, while my food churns and my blood simmers. Not boiling, it doesn't boil these days and it may or may not be a good sign. My head is in a mess and my words don't flow like they used to because my fingers have forgotten the keys and buttons I've always liked to remember. Fuck.

So while my bones and nerves ache and twist (bones ache and nerves twist), I will be called morose, and will most likely feel so. Sticky, sweet things will alter my environment but I should have known my heart will resist alterations. My damned perceptions and deviant thoughts will remain disguised. Fuck.

Sorry. My head's not quite right yet. Why am I apologizing to you?

Goodbyes never mean anything with you. Have you noticed?