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.
The spigot is old and rusted - bound to break if you force it. Wrap it in an oily rag. Spray some WD-40 on it. Pray on it. Tell God you'd appreciate it if he'd help you out. With the rusted spigot and all. The rest of the stuff - well, you're probably on your own. No one is ever going to clean up your messes.
Least of all you.
I got this feeling, and I know it ain't right. Not one bit. I try not to think about it, but it sneaks into my brain and nests up in there. It collects twigs and twine and shiny things.
Quit fucking talking about me. I'll hide in this stench, horrid, wondering where did Mommy go? Where did Mommy go? Mommy, you were right there and then black and then white and then doctors and then police.
Did Jimmy go to the police, yet? They're bound to know he did it. Because of the rope.
Thanks, tip your writer.
You hit your face on reality. That shit stings. I get it. We all do it. Smash the fucking computer with a hammer. You'll be delighted by the sound.
The old man with the anxious hands sits at the back of the BART train and closes his eyes. And folks wonder what he thinks about. Moist, humid things. Fetid. They don't know that he is dreaming rivers, blue and deep. So deep you can sink into the cool waters forever, become water.
I want to be a firefly inside your youthful jar. I want to be that spark of excitement. That magic bit of something. Nature. That gift that we are given on warm nights when the world smells like honeysuckle and looks like a light show.
Even if just for a minute.