Sling - Listening to: Old REM

I hate blaming this slog blog for everything. Especially my stellar social life. Like trying to type with one non-dislocated, free-of-searing-pain arm.

An arm just swinging at the side, barely attached to any nuance of gesture.

Good thing I'm ambidexterious. Still can barely hit 70 with the left arm on the speed gun.(Went to the boardwalk earlier tonight. A seashore convenience.) I dare anyone reading this, or within 2 degrees of reading this, to hit 70 with a good arm, let alone a rag. Yet I looze velocity by the moment. Fuck.

The aggregate of death in my family is right here, right now. Within reach.

You try typing while wearing a sling, screaming in pain and trying to snap your upper torso back into place. When one brick falls, all crumbles.

Trying to fill a sand seieve.

No. Stop. No way. I will stand up to any and all decay-- be it time, essence, paint, mold, erosion, limited warrantes, cancer in the family, beauty in a love afar, or alluringly slippery sounds (plural noun that describes emotive pussy.)

Consider the gauntlet thrown, Ms. AZ. Beautiful as you are. Either this or delete me.

Yes, even at this hour I set forth my own series of considerations. Silly as it seems, there are reasons why I draw lines.

Holy shit. The Foo Fighters video I saw on the 16th floor coffee shop during work at low tide today is blasting as I type. I can totally ID with the drums and the boots. Bad sign.