Saturday 12/9/23
Screaming, sloppy, drunken hags in the street with their meathead companions had me up even earlier than usual this morning.
Why do meatheads always talk--if that's what one is going to call it--like they're three blocks away from each other?
"Bro, we're gonna get food..."
Of course you are. What could better hit the spot after a night of enchanting conversation than a microwaved steak and cheese sub from the 7-Eleven?
A woman writes me, apropos of nothing, and asks, "What is your connection to poetry?"
People are basically like, "I'm insane, might as well just say some random nonsense from out of my addled brain as if it follows logically and no one could have any doubt."
Anyway--a lot to do. Big day, big new week, of a big month. I'll resume now.
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