Walking on eggshells is really only a problem if you’re afraid of breaking the white or brown casings into even smaller pieces. You don’t want to deal with sticky slimy syrupy (at times) embryonic fluid getting in between your toes or the floorboards, but no amount of worrying can ever make the pieces bigger. When the foot comes down, the ghost town breaks. So, what if it never does? So what if it never does?

shrug IT off this year

• Overcoming neuroticism is a not only hard, it is necessary

• Bleak outlooks are best shared with others. Don’t repeat them to yourself

• Starve (in moderation) and take time to spread

• Harm less, love more

I hate minimalism. There is almost a tacit admission of tackiness and lack of taste in resigning one’s aesthetic sensibility to the like barren borescape of not having. Can you really not trust yourself to amass and cohere? I’m not retarded; I know that Minimalism is a thing. I love it. See below →

I hate minimalism tho. I HATE minimalism (TM). More likely, I can’t focus. I’d love to love absolutely, but several key things hold me back.

NEUroticism, first and frankly foremost.

Before settling in on AN aesthetic, ( really. its JUST ONE: I’ll hold to this and never expand on my thought process ), minimalism neuters the capacity to colonize.

Ideally you take and terraform.

I like the way stained glass tells a story and looks like candy made in a pre-war first floor apartment shop that a fat man with a comically waxed and twisted mustache twirls while hot; spinning sugar strands through spiral contraptions making spider webs that don’t trap flies but rather rot your teeth.

Now, should I lean in there and take the time to cleave something coherent from what I imagine, or make a statement and stick to stained glass? No, I’d rather just tremble, or stumble, or beat it ttttttttttttrtttttttr. Put simply, at some point a choice is made to stop. No more interests, simply management of the already existing. To make minimalism the thing, you have to sacrifice and center. The things you like are no longer interests in themselves but objects to be arranged and, at THAT point, point and signal.

Where hyperdisability manifests in this analysis lies beyond the breaking point of truth telling. Clinging to the meta-level sugar spiral tells others that you know how to design, however it can never satisfy the cravings that guide our artistic taste buds.

I wish I could tell you how I really feel. Instead, I rely on broadbased broadcasts :: belicosity thresholds signal maxxing. A certainty spaced out in circles over time and over time. Crystalized anxiety, sorry sappy self-sacrifice stopping honest reflection. A mirror held up to prevent bleeding where the wound opens for the peanut gallery.

Who's your favorite child actor? I like when I can’t feel my gums.

Tingly money rolled up like Mao stuck in my nose and sending Aeneas to a shore where Dido can pretend she’s not gonna kill herself over some Trojan failson who wants to build a bundled up monument to larping as a enlightened walled off oily scented lone wolf beehive Turkish-coded “clever-seeming” (but never speaking) soldier whose only tantamount achievement is letting some Goddess who likes the taste of apples play out her war games in full view of her father’s disapproving stare, mostly off in the distance, not even under water, and probably in a squared-off tabletop game jumping though hoops in the worst possible neighborhoods of Baltimore. (its giving creepy sleepy chicken soup slathered sodium bubble vibes bby).

Next slide pleazze …

I’ve seen the ways cars pass by on the roads leading to fulfillment. They honk out warnings to bystanders. The tune is harsh. Fire engines are worse. IF you make it through the pasta hole, rewards in Jennah unfold to the delight of all. A serenity found in backyards compound year on year on year on year over tears.

In the springtime, soldiers entered the streets of Paris and put out cigarettes on Anthony Fauci’s wife’s dress. The holes they formed in the fabric made each and every one of us more present in the daily lives of bees, bears, and Branching processes.

Match, make, and melt. Care is imprecise. All that I have left is pills and good although actually not really, its bad, advice. Twenty-two months are a long time and much can happen in them. I’ve known that something is missing. I spend the day existing. U spend it being unaware. When I wake up smiling, I feel like I’m making fun of you. Please let me down but don’t, whatever you do, let me drown. Bogged down by the loneliness of a concrete structure at the top of an unobstructed hill, I watch for an invasion from the North. Hordes of milk drinking horse taming archers are not enough to make the uniform un-dusty. I’d like to see the medals dazzle in my bedroom but the walls are too high to scale and my posters make me uncomfortable. I send money to the Philipines so that a shaman can interpret my dreams and tell me I’m stupid.

I never really understood why I’m unapproachable.

Starting with soliloquies is the best way to bleed.

If I fight for you, then how do WE proceed? A black and white piece in the circus prevents me from crying out “I’ve found peace in the madness. Don’t cry for me don’t spy on me don’t cut out window frames or break glass bottles on your best friend’s birthday!!!!”

Can you imagine a world in which we’re all represented by -_O

Shame on me.

There is time for an illness - a sickness spreading deeply - to fester and recede as cures come and go. There is time for disposable babies to take their first steps, maybe falling on the pavement. Even time for them to realize why it hurts. Thoughts to form and memories to clear mists out of mostly deserted loading docks. The morning feels warm.

An anthill. An anvil. Forget it.

Jesus died for our sins and he still didn’t believe in God? I find it hard to believe that the rosy cheeks of an cherub betray rainbow notes. Nah, you’re a pin.

Moldy bread and golden toast taste good when you slather them in olive oil.

Grabbing telephone wires shocks the system into calling serums, raw, feeling cool. Chilly balconies, no notice no Notice no Notice no vol-piss on my shoes. They is leather and they is dirty. No frames in Moorish fold ups bend far enough to charm my love interest. And wide? But I think I’m not seeing the thighs all around.

“You cannot rest the alimony. Pretend things are inside a bubble. Hey. Hey! spare them hearts, child. During the summer, take me sailing out on the Atlantic. I won’t set my sights on other seas, there is no need to panic. Forget the invitations, floral arrangements, and bread makers. They’re talking about sleeping in sin.“ → its been said that crafts and arts are the only skills necessary to baking cookies in the bleakest winter-modeled frosted deli meats.

A pharmacist shot my oven with tinfoil brownies so I will wear a hat to protect my self-image and then some.

A pharmacist collected fishes and put them in her aquarium to show all her friends how the swimmies played and shoved pomegranates down their little throats till their gills filled with crusty yeast. YUCKY murder monsters and jellies in a chloratic youth-haze on the canopy warned the girl in Byakkoya that when he dropped out of the cargo plane, shells and tear gas ripped her pores open so that the bugs and features salted the dish soap. She isn’t trapped. She isn’t. The king told me God loves us. My mom told me God loves us. I don’t love greenhouses. I BKJFHKJSHFLKHKJH stretched out and savored every moment I could.

You can build a bear in the mall. Lmao

When trains roll through marshy waters, malformed sentences betray an awareness of the shortcomings of honesty. When does sentience become a death sentence? In my own case, it prevents a deep dive. It prevents the next step. I’d like to go two at a time but my knees are too creaky to wind up and jump jump jump up high enough to clear the heights that would even allow for such a speed run.

Fully willing, and most definitely able, elephants store LLMs in tails that only the most autisto-mystical can breathe into the statues that line the streets of a walkway split two ways: on the left I see you all over my eyelids and in my head and on my hand and in the stars and every ice cream gives me a migraine - on the right I imagine the aesthetics and affects of cuteness. It’s blue, quaint, hungry, AND romantic: dock folded smoothly into each category.

Alarm bells should be wringing the milk from dirty towels at a bonfire not too far in the future. Ill-advised and not informed, ringtones fucked beyond repair. I laid down and saw ammonites in the sand. I laid down and saw berries in a mason jar. I laid down and saw the coast of Italy. I call it don’t drink or take drugs. The message is : “don’t think of welcome signs or tight and longlasting hugs” → Irish Goodbyes.

More people have been to Russia than I have. More money has been spent on fabric and textiles than we have. In Newport, slaves lived on the top floor of Campbells soup cans, paid for by Mixed Messages. Media savvy fantasy realms frothed and I made a bet that when we rounded the corner, the house I saw wasn’t the one where promises were made and then promptly forgotten about after a pale pair of engineers smooth talked their way into the chasm left behind by really cold dryrub showers.

Try to picture all of this. Paint it if you can’t rotate your hips enough to crack a grin in my direction on th4e off-chance I’m waiting for new jeans and reciprocation.

But how do WE get that message? Ending a phonecall with a sacrifice isn’t appropriate. Sending hospital bills to music halls isn’t appropriate. Repeating yourself is embarrassing. Clinging to vines is embarrassing. Gushing is embarrassing. Singing is kinda cute. Dancing is silly.

Each and every yummy treat has been wrapped and yard-checked by the gardening staff. They trimmed the hedges and made our mouths a labyrinth with a sunny secret stored in the leaves. I’m all out of bagels.

Can we prepend most of the vulnerability to the moments that matter? Can we ever hope for an unending wheel of clear, concise, and thoroughly pleated Lululemonade? You want to be a legend OR (I’ve thought about this a lot and I’m pretty sure) the hairy tablet at the end of time convinced you that people share at most food and at least a timetable telling carts and pilgrims April has codified the rules which govern 54% of all special interests in bombed out civil disagreements obsessed with playing always-something-to-prove, now that nothing depends on me - drive it insane, no sick feeble sleeves tugging at glory you will never know, cleaved and bothered, locked out - the gatefold mountain lion.

I pick the music. This is my party. Weeee write the dress code, weeeee make the punch, weeeeee set the table, we, uhm, chief the profits, we ARE the rules, we ARE, I swear, we are, we are.

I’m a lamb.

Made in hasty tangled knots, I can proudly say this is my tigersuit. My stripes are so pretty and so are you. My stripes rusted over and now I’m sad. My rusty stripes were ignored and living life in stone, walking after hours, cause I am running out of that feeling. This fight is full of mushrooms and everything, not just me, is running out of that feeling. So what you gonna do bout it?

vomit comet vomit vomit vomit vomit on my chest

oK sweet!

Walking on eggshells is really only a problem if you’re afraid of breaking the white or brown casings into even smaller pieces. You don’t want to deal with sticky slimy syrupy (at times) embryonic fluid getting in between your toes or the floorboards, but no amount of worrying can ever make the pieces bigger. When the foot comes down, the ghost town breaks. So, what if it never does? So what if it never does?

shrug IT off this year

• Overcoming neuroticism is a not only hard, it is necessary

• Bleak outlooks are best shared with others. Don’t repeat them to yourself

• Starve (in moderation) and take time to spread

• Harm less, love more

I hate minimalism. There is almost a tacit admission of tackiness and lack of taste in resigning one’s aesthetic sensibility to the like barren borescape of not having. Can you really not trust yourself to amass and cohere? I’m not retarded; I know that Minimalism is a thing. I love it. See below →

I hate minimalism tho. I HATE minimalism (TM). More likely, I can’t focus. I’d love to love absolutely, but several key things hold me back.

NEUroticism, first and frankly foremost.

Before settling in on AN aesthetic, ( really. its JUST ONE: I’ll hold to this and never expand on my thought process ), minimalism neuters the capacity to colonize.

Ideally you take and terraform.

I like the way stained glass tells a story and looks like candy made in a pre-war first floor apartment shop that a fat man with a comically waxed and twisted mustache twirls while hot; spinning sugar strands through spiral contraptions making spider webs that don’t trap flies but rather rot your teeth.

Now, should I lean in there and take the time to cleave something coherent from what I imagine, or make a statement and stick to stained glass? No, I’d rather just tremble, or stumble, or beat it ttttttttttttrtttttttr. Put simply, at some point a choice is made to stop. No more interests, simply management of the already existing. To make minimalism the thing, you have to sacrifice and center. The things you like are no longer interests in themselves but objects to be arranged and, at THAT point, point and signal.

Where hyperdisability manifests in this analysis lies beyond the breaking point of truth telling. Clinging to the meta-level sugar spiral tells others that you know how to design, however it can never satisfy the cravings that guide our artistic taste buds.

I wish I could tell you how I really feel. Instead, I rely on broadbased broadcasts :: belicosity thresholds signal maxxing. A certainty spaced out in circles over time and over time. Crystalized anxiety, sorry sappy self-sacrifice stopping honest reflection. A mirror held up to prevent bleeding where the wound opens for the peanut gallery.

Who's your favorite child actor? I like when I can’t feel my gums.

Tingly money rolled up like Mao stuck in my nose and sending Aeneas to a shore where Dido can pretend she’s not gonna kill herself over some Trojan failson who wants to build a bundled up monument to larping as a enlightened walled off oily scented lone wolf beehive Turkish-coded “clever-seeming” (but never speaking) soldier whose only tantamount achievement is letting some Goddess who likes the taste of apples play out her war games in full view of her father’s disapproving stare, mostly off in the distance, not even under water, and probably in a squared-off tabletop game jumping though hoops in the worst possible neighborhoods of Baltimore. (its giving creepy sleepy chicken soup slathered sodium bubble vibes bby).

Next slide pleazze …

I’ve seen the ways cars pass by on the roads leading to fulfillment. They honk out warnings to bystanders. The tune is harsh. Fire engines are worse. IF you make it through the pasta hole, rewards in Jennah unfold to the delight of all. A serenity found in backyards compound year on year on year on year over tears.

In the springtime, soldiers entered the streets of Paris and put out cigarettes on Anthony Fauci’s wife’s dress. The holes they formed in the fabric made each and every one of us more present in the daily lives of bees, bears, and Branching processes.

Match, make, and melt. Care is imprecise. All that I have left is pills and good although actually not really, its bad, advice. Twenty-two months are a long time and much can happen in them. I’ve known that something is missing. I spend the day existing. U spend it being unaware. When I wake up smiling, I feel like I’m making fun of you. Please let me down but don’t, whatever you do, let me drown. Bogged down by the loneliness of a concrete structure at the top of an unobstructed hill, I watch for an invasion from the North. Hordes of milk drinking horse taming archers are not enough to make the uniform un-dusty. I’d like to see the medals dazzle in my bedroom but the walls are too high to scale and my posters make me uncomfortable. I send money to the Philipines so that a shaman can interpret my dreams and tell me I’m stupid.

I never really understood why I’m unapproachable.

Starting with soliloquies is the best way to bleed.

If I fight for you, then how do WE proceed? A black and white piece in the circus prevents me from crying out “I’ve found peace in the madness. Don’t cry for me don’t spy on me don’t cut out window frames or break glass bottles on your best friend’s birthday!!!!”

Can you imagine a world in which we’re all represented by -_O

Shame on me.

There is time for an illness - a sickness spreading deeply - to fester and recede as cures come and go. There is time for disposable babies to take their first steps, maybe falling on the pavement. Even time for them to realize why it hurts. Thoughts to form and memories to clear mists out of mostly deserted loading docks. The morning feels warm.

An anthill. An anvil. Forget it.

Jesus died for our sins and he still didn’t believe in God? I find it hard to believe that the rosy cheeks of an cherub betray rainbow notes. Nah, you’re a pin.

Moldy bread and golden toast taste good when you slather them in olive oil.

Grabbing telephone wires shocks the system into calling serums, raw, feeling cool. Chilly balconies, no notice no Notice no Notice no vol-piss on my shoes. They is leather and they is dirty. No frames in Moorish fold ups bend far enough to charm my love interest. And wide? But I think I’m not seeing the thighs all around.

“You cannot rest the alimony. Pretend things are inside a bubble. Hey. Hey! spare them hearts, child. During the summer, take me sailing out on the Atlantic. I won’t set my sights on other seas, there is no need to panic. Forget the invitations, floral arrangements, and bread makers. They’re talking about sleeping in sin.“ → its been said that crafts and arts are the only skills necessary to baking cookies in the bleakest winter-modeled frosted deli meats.

A pharmacist shot my oven with tinfoil brownies so I will wear a hat to protect my self-image and then some.

A pharmacist collected fishes and put them in her aquarium to show all her friends how the swimmies played and shoved pomegranates down their little throats till their gills filled with crusty yeast. YUCKY murder monsters and jellies in a chloratic youth-haze on the canopy warned the girl in Byakkoya that when he dropped out of the cargo plane, shells and tear gas ripped her pores open so that the bugs and features salted the dish soap. She isn’t trapped. She isn’t. The king told me God loves us. My mom told me God loves us. I don’t love greenhouses. I BKJFHKJSHFLKHKJH stretched out and savored every moment I could.

You can build a bear in the mall. Lmao

When trains roll through marshy waters, malformed sentences betray an awareness of the shortcomings of honesty. When does sentience become a death sentence? In my own case, it prevents a deep dive. It prevents the next step. I’d like to go two at a time but my knees are too creaky to wind up and jump jump jump up high enough to clear the heights that would even allow for such a speed run.

Fully willing, and most definitely able, elephants store LLMs in tails that only the most autisto-mystical can breathe into the statues that line the streets of a walkway split two ways: on the left I see you all over my eyelids and in my head and on my hand and in the stars and every ice cream gives me a migraine - on the right I imagine the aesthetics and affects of cuteness. It’s blue, quaint, hungry, AND romantic: dock folded smoothly into each category.

Alarm bells should be wringing the milk from dirty towels at a bonfire not too far in the future. Ill-advised and not informed, ringtones fucked beyond repair. I laid down and saw ammonites in the sand. I laid down and saw berries in a mason jar. I laid down and saw the coast of Italy. I call it don’t drink or take drugs. The message is : “don’t think of welcome signs or tight and longlasting hugs” → Irish Goodbyes.

More people have been to Russia than I have. More money has been spent on fabric and textiles than we have. In Newport, slaves lived on the top floor of Campbells soup cans, paid for by Mixed Messages. Media savvy fantasy realms frothed and I made a bet that when we rounded the corner, the house I saw wasn’t the one where promises were made and then promptly forgotten about after a pale pair of engineers smooth talked their way into the chasm left behind by really cold dryrub showers.

Try to picture all of this. Paint it if you can’t rotate your hips enough to crack a grin in my direction on th4e off-chance I’m waiting for new jeans and reciprocation.

But how do WE get that message? Ending a phonecall with a sacrifice isn’t appropriate. Sending hospital bills to music halls isn’t appropriate. Repeating yourself is embarrassing. Clinging to vines is embarrassing. Gushing is embarrassing. Singing is kinda cute. Dancing is silly.

Each and every yummy treat has been wrapped and yard-checked by the gardening staff. They trimmed the hedges and made our mouths a labyrinth with a sunny secret stored in the leaves. I’m all out of bagels.

Can we prepend most of the vulnerability to the moments that matter? Can we ever hope for an unending wheel of clear, concise, and thoroughly pleated Lululemonade? You want to be a legend OR (I’ve thought about this a lot and I’m pretty sure) the hairy tablet at the end of time convinced you that people share at most food and at least a timetable telling carts and pilgrims April has codified the rules which govern 54% of all special interests in bombed out civil disagreements obsessed with playing always-something-to-prove, now that nothing depends on me - drive it insane, no sick feeble sleeves tugging at glory you will never know, cleaved and bothered, locked out - the gatefold mountain lion.

I pick the music. This is my party. Weeee write the dress code, weeeee make the punch, weeeeee set the table, we, uhm, chief the profits, we ARE the rules, we ARE, I swear, we are, we are.

I’m a lamb.

Made in hasty tangled knots, I can proudly say this is my tigersuit. My stripes are so pretty and so are you. My stripes rusted over and now I’m sad. My rusty stripes were ignored and living life in stone, walking after hours, cause I am running out of that feeling. This fight is full of mushrooms and everything, not just me, is running out of that feeling. So what you gonna do bout it?

vomit comet vomit vomit vomit vomit on my chest

oK sweet!