Monday, March 14, 2016

Inkblottola


    I hate it when gathering your thoughts resembles two octopussies battling to fold one another inside out but such is life this morning.

    Today calls for incisive exactitude, and I am bound to fail horribly in everything I do.

    If only it were possible to say, “please hang on until tomorrow, when I will possess the cerebrum of Professor Stephen Hawking — and a dragster,” but time waits for no man (especially one made polyoctopussialar).

    So I am wobbling here as a writhing mass of undersea wibblies in the hope that I may inspire others in a similar position/pool.

    Monday, you demand of us that we shake off the liquid detritus from the weekend’s gay abandon and leap into the working week maelstrom with diligence, enthusiasm, and fucking plenty brandy.

    Oh, but we are mortals, and we are feeble!

    We writhe and squirm and spit ink at random into the salty swill...



 

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