I have this unusual feeling that somethings wrong. As if not even drunken twister at the PlayBoy mansion would cure my churning stomach.

“Do what you have to do.”

Its it really supposed to be that simple?? Or is it that you are bound be to cold, in order to even be doused with the warmth of your real, true bird. Well I’d like to call it that because what can fly? A bird. What is free from humanity’s verbal corruption of the chanting taunts embracing your inner mind? A bird. WHO makes you want to fly, fly far away with them? A bird.

It’s as if I keep picking the longest straw out of the bunch, but what you really want is the shortest one. The simplicity of having less, but ending up with more than you started with. Either I messed up, or I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to. But..

Fuck regrets. I’ll take some Pepto to rest till the morn.