Soft bean foam sloughs into the baseball cap.
Each Simpson has a rational motive.
Screaming amber men coalesce from sap.
Sprites see retirees remain active.
Some bodies belatedly sprout light bulbs.
A silent punch line leaves a wet t-shirt.
Nipples are north poles on painted breast globes.
Lactose intolerant Santa is hurt.
Water cider sufficed in burnt orchard.
Leatherface is a knowable neighbour.
Candy lights rot the impact of Deckard.
Limes burst to mess on the new light sabre.
Citrus fruits are abandoned ghost eyeballs.
Solidified gin packs roll round the halls.
I started growing this van dyke last week;
I look like Colonel Sanders, don't I? I'm still sorting out my feelings about this. I'm considering getting a white suit and black bow tie and starting to introduce myself as Sanders 2010. Maybe I'll stand in front of KFC and greet people, "Welcome! Get ready to have a fantastic experience with chicken! Relax, and let me escort you and your family to a realm of ecstasy involving poultry, and if there's time, I'll introduce you to the robot servant I invented."
Maybe I'll just cultivate an obsession with chicken. Who knows, the possibilities posed by silly facial hair are endless. I think it needs a weird, monotone, high pitched laugh to go with it, and maybe I'll walk around cradling an old fashioned cash register like an infant.
Feeling a bit tired to-day--I stayed up late, all the way to 1:30am!--because I was talking to my friend Iain, who's in town, until 11:30pm at a coffee place. It really seems like I have permanently settled on a day time schedule, despite the things that keep happening at night trying to convince me to go back to the nocturnal schedule. I'm looking forward to this more normal schedule causing me to have abnormally rational thoughts or something.