7878 (July 2025)

 

i’ve been on the chopping block for 7878 days.

Is it still an angel number if it’s in sets of twos? is it still an angel number if i cut corners and do bad things more than once in a blue moon?

i’m 7878 days old and i still can’t draw an ampersand. 

i buy the cheap stuff because it all tastes the same when you’re seeing spots. 

Micheline star is for the faint of heart and i faint at the thought.

i need a room with a wooden floor because walking on carpet is to walk on an angry lamb or an angry ram, something that i know I am.

i think all IPAS taste the same and i don’t give a damn what a man has to say about that.

i’m 7878 days in and i think maybe only two or three or four people have ever loved me to the edge, and the rest of the pale blue dot likes me just fine. 

maybe four or five or six want me dead, or at least wish i had a bunion that kept me from climbing mountains.

i mean it in the literal sense, i don’t amount to much of anything, other than climbing mountains, drinking beer and collecting fear like spare buttons in my jean pockets.

more often than not i drink to write and write about the drinking and it’s a dirty picture, the snake eating its tail, a tale as old as time, you dissipate completely when you partake in a cycle.

i’ve spent 7878 days with my feet on the ground and i don’t like the sound of my voice.

something about the pitch paints me like a naked bitch and i’ve always hated a bitch's curves if they’re my own.

at least i’m home grown and hand sewn and do the crossword almost every morning.