Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
They’re lying to you. Sugar sweet grin and dimpled chin – it’s a short con. You are being fleeced. But you don’t do anything about it. You are the glass bluebird on your Grandmother’s shelf in the room no one ever sat in. You are the echo of a silent scream. You are the insomniac’s dream. You feel me? Know what I mean? You are the crystal vase that your sister broke – the one you said you broke. You are the memory of that and more.
You are playing the game, but you don’t know the score.
I once met a boy who loved chess. And I wanted to love chess because that seemed like the right thing to do. But I don’t love chess. And maybe I should have pretended. But I’m not good at pretending – never did like a happy ending. I am the flash of pain you feel in your chest when you realize that your tank is empty – you’ve got nothing left.
I know I’m supposed to want it because they tell me I’m supposed to want it, but they say so many things. And most of those things are self-serving bullshit pucks shot directly at your teeth.
I killed Santa Claus, and all I got was this tacky aluminum wreath.
In the branches of the trees, there are birds that can astound you. There is so much to see if you just look around you. But there is also much to be seen from turning the lens back upon yourself. By dissecting and slicing through the layers of fatty tissue. Don’t have a scalpel? That’s not an issue. You have an internet connection and that thing will flay you eight ways from Sunday.
You better believe it.
And I’m just one more stupid monkey trying to tell you where to find meaning based on my own mental preening. Slandering. Meandering. Nothing is going to resolve itself any time soon. You just need to come to grips with that. And you should probably get on it soon. There I go again, being the clown who mocks the buffoon.
Picture this: there are freckles on her face, light and barely visible. They rest upon her nose and they’re beautiful, but she hates them. You could stare at them forever, but she’d scrub that shit with Comet if she thought it would work. And that’s everybody. That’s all of us.
Not seeing the freckles for the trees. I know you're searching answers, but you won't get them from me.
#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...