Meaning numbers?

Meaning numbers alright, oh yeah, their starling bends narrowing at no end down unconquered white textual plains, laying phantoms which collapse into the dewy vertebrae and sex synapses of all those eight thirties, all those eight thirties, I says, “All those 8:30s with a baseball bat!” Johnny the Moondog Is Dead!

Feels like your heart is beating out your chest when you think of numbers for more than one second, insofar as attaching and regarding meaning to/of anything is a plunge into risking everything for the biscuit, pursuant of meaning, Papa Pursuant. The “biscuit” is love and purpose and various truisms like the holy good of burying your nose in a nape excited in the anticipation of getting sucked. Writing this now I’m looking up every two seconds, because I perceive an end that likely isn’t here—and there’s hardly anything so profound in this as there are basic consequences of chemical composition, emotions that could be put to a picture put to a wall put to the hungry eyes of some swarm of pubescence. That right there is a home run of causes and effectses. We gotta stop thinking of children, let them do their thing.

I wish each time that my eBay sweatshirt notifications were really your confessions, but oh well. Must keep on moving on. I’ve forgotten that intimacy is something to which you cannot attribute any conclusion so long as the 2 of you are apart. So jerking or hand-flinging about the subject is either dwelling or pretension or some other sad indulgence. Yes: I must throw myself into the race so as to feel the adrenaline of every stride and so forth, however I’m gonna spare you the rest of that gay little imagery. This is all to say LESS thinking and more DO. Notwithstanding the weight of you.

Thanksgiving is coming soon. I think that’ll be a learning experience. I’m coming into my own, supposedly, as a 23 year old man, and I think the discussions will attempt a fittingly clumsy flavor. Perhaps a flavor much more potent than that of that blastedly dry turkey, ho ho! It’ll be something about what I’m gonna mean or what I’m gonna do, and I’ll say writing, even though I don’t think I’ve been so grand at it these past few months. If I was a bit more honest I’d say that I’ve veered towards and then away from a suicidal framework of narrowing my view to turning 25 and then perceiving total black after that. Think I’ve shook that funk, though. So what explanation have I now? What description of purpose? Uh, writing, motherfucker? Music? I don’t know, man—food service into my late twenties? But yeah, writing. I think I can do something with that, short and long term. I just cannot permit myself the KGB/Tile Bar/crypto-fascist dreck, though I know therein lies legit financial benefits. Why am I even talking about this? I know I’ll take no part.

Could be a comedian. Could be a gay ass comedian that’s like, “Pickle rick, ho ho! Doomed yaoi, yeeeeeeah-uh!” That might leak the ol faucet. The faucet that is worth something. The faucet that could be falling in love, also.

Christ on a cracker, this will all make one sigh. And then there’s Christmas.