Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. If I type that four hundred and ninety-six times, I’ll be— officially jiddle-bugged. Todays’ game is: leave all mistakes. Even that one—you know the one, I mean—putting the apostrophe in the wrong place. Though it fucking kills you— I have learned, through mini-golf and castle-building, that I am a control freak like my mom. I tend to tell the girls what to do a lot, even when they’ve invited me to play with them. I see no reason not to experiment with changing that up a little. There is a woman in here, a typical suburban cow, looking somewhere between anxious and disgusted, while behind her, the window pane grows elvin with rows of tiny glass beads. Finally, it’s raining. I used to do this, you know—just practice typing. When I couldn’t think of anything else I’d rather do or say. Couldn’t think of anything, so just sat and typed random things that were around me, and hence the fascination with cafés and mystical sauna-portals to ill-defined realms of magic sensuousness and beads of sweat on pubic hairs It was how I’d plow through words and years and pages—getting not exactly nowhere but— It would be nice if I could not be such a bitchy grump at home in the evenings when everyone’s home. Blink. Blink. Bling. There are some things wrong with this airport. A river of rock flows through the atrium. It’s between 72 to 75 during the day. It’s a very long skinny airport, for one thing—It’s shaped like an enormous virgule. To get from one end of the other, you have to rent a car, or pack for a really long hike. We’re talking overnight. And bring one of those crank radios, because there’s no wifi during some stretches. I’m telling you—my buddy went on foot one time last year—he had a flight to like latvia or someplace like that—and he swears to god he heard howling from an access corridor. He said he just got in his tent, zipped it up tight, and preyed. I mean he’s typically pretty full of shit, but still. Why start eating your Doritos before your tacos are ready, you know what I mean? Fuck e’m. IOh shit I forgot—IO was going to just leave all the mistakes, and then subconsciously pretend not to be intentionally making more, just to test myself. OK, ewmember what I asaid about not having anything to say? Yeah, that applioes here pretty hard core. For the (726,002nd time in my life, I don’t know what to write Apparantly IO’m not the only one who gets horny as the end of the world draws near. There are some riters on that internet thning that are just trying to portray themselves as the romantic genius, o crazy and self-iunaware, they just radiate little gems every time they sweat or take a shit. Its the “me” essay over and over again. I don’t much care for it as a “stance” or a”sthled” I think it’s most likey a “mistake” thinking you’re so fucking special picture four squares of heavenly chocolate harmony: in the first one, three alien fighter crescents nestle rtogether in a loving, defensive, debonair group, a little to the right and below the middle in the second one, a bonded pair hover together in tight formation, away up left over a scribbly field of green the third one shows a brilliant triad of duos, arranged in a nuclear-waste-symbol triad, exploding invisibly away from each other in a clear gray sky in the fourth one, all the evanescences commingle in an open-toned orgy of ultra-clean fireworks, while the end of the universe approaches from the right—and turns out that it is a brick wall after all! Underneath that, there’s another row of four; this one’s taller though, oh whatever i got distracted by the kissing sounds in my ears when you get tired of trying to figure out who’s right, form your own opinion (2016)