A Simile for Your Emotional Toolbelt

Like a cloud demon uncontrollably vomiting burritos.

Top Heavy Sweat Stain with Nod Heady Neck Strain

I like the sun a lot. It pretty much powers the whole planet and everything on it. If the sun hadn't been invented, we wouldn't even have flashlights because the flashlight was inspired by the sun in the first place. Your eyes were made to help you see the stuff the sun shines on. Your mouth was made to eat fruit. Guess where fruit comes from? Plants. And plants use the sun. The list goes on and on.

Manta rays, mademoiselles, marmalade: these are all words that start with 'M'. But I think that we can  all agree that there is even another word that starts with 'M'. And that word is

Murder. Yeah, guys, murder. It's not a fun subject. A murder is a terrible thing. Ten murders is even worse. One trillion murders is quantitatively worse still. But the sun shines on that, too. The sun would shine on any kind of murder. At no point would the sun stop shining because of it. So you might think, "Hey, what's the deal, Mr. or Mrs. Sun? Are you indifferent to us? You'll shine on anything?"

And the answer is, 'Yes'. The sun will shine on anything. So, I mean, there you go. Choose your own adventure, I guess.

But seriously, be nice to each other. I love you.

You Have To Answer To That

What? You wanna put my complaining in perspective by pointing out my insignificance in comparison to the vastness of the universe? To show that I should be grateful to play a part in something so wondrous and huge that it dwarfs our grandest imaginings and dreams?

Well, guess what, universe?!

I'm still bored, this is still lame, and I still want NACHOS!

Do You Like Secret Windows?

A book is like a secret window.

I'm Normal. Everything's Normal.

Robot Arms, Man

They're always trying to steal my giant pears wearing bow-ties. Always! 

A Big Man-Munching Flower

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 
Memory and desire, stirring 
Dull roots with spring rain.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
 Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images.

-T.S. Eliot (noted party monster)