I want to write, altering people's Mind.
Turn your couch into a boat.
Jimmy and Carly ate raw hot dogs, but that was 6 hours ago, and they have been flailing hard and wriggling towards the lit base on the high hill.
They need food; they need fuel. They want a soft large bed to cuddle on... a dry bed... a clean bed.
Central America needs international humanitarian aid. I am that aide. Me.
Jimmy and Carly need my resourcefulness and my expertise on a variety of vital life-sustaining practices and pleasures!
I'm working on my upper back right now.
Semi-verbal, semi-audible, semi-erect Demi God, Hot bitch, Cute, Cute Baby!
Oh, shit! Fuck! I forgot Kevin Rymes at the yohghurt-meat dock.
He eats his feet if he's left alone for 11 minutes.
Jimmy prepared his mind and body....
He thanks his past self. He puts photos of himself on an altar.
He writes a note real quick:
farm bunnies eat my eyeballs, my brother is a suicidal mass-murderer.
He stands up straighter. He purses his lips then gives a serious kiss to the cosmos. He kills his desire then lovingly cradles its stiff little corpse. He puts his dead D-sire to bed, rests its engorged head on a perfect pillow, and gently strokes its tender brow....
Jimmy slips his flops on and walks to the 7-11 at the end of his block at 11 a.m.
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