oh hell

It seems I will never catch up to the current LJ entries. So I'll post anyway, the rumors of my demise, much like the ones concerning the not-so late unlamented Dennis O'Connor, being premature. Although not due to any failings on the part of the horrid Skittles I bought by the side of the road today. I think they dated from the Hoover administration and were made of paint. I continue to drive up and down the coast on my new tires with my new muffler on inexplicable errands, eating inedible road food; perhaps this is the secret to my immortality -- I am composed of food preservatives and other people's thoughts. I don't actually exist; I'm only a figment of your imagination. You'd think I'd get in less trouble, but no. Huh.

So when I can't sleep at 3 am, haunted by the Ghosts of Fucknuts past (will my nightmares end if I leap out the window and throw a turkey at an urchin? Who knows? Dickens isn't around to answer my questions, and there's never any convenient turkeys or urchins with which to experiment when the urge hits) I come up with this fuckery. Beats shooting from the roof of the building with a scope and a rifle.