Serial Thriller

The headache is gone! Until it comes back! Fuck.

In this age of mass shootings and arcade style body counts, I find myself reminiscent for the good old days of the serial killer.

They had class, took their time and always left delightful clues. They did things their won way, with impersonal touch and flair that stood out. You knew a Gacy from a Grin. A Bundy was clearly different than a Dahmer. Artists of the flesh canvas. 

This impersonal firing of bullets into a crowd is pedantic. There is no passion. 

So it is. So it shall be. Amen.

Lately I feel like I am walking on the ice of a freshly frozen pond. It seems thick but occasionally I can hear a crack. When I was a kid I remember a kid falling through the ice and dying. I was weak kneed the first couple times on the ice after that. I feel the same now. I am just trying to maneuver across the river not fall through and drown in the icy flow.

It is hard to know what to do at times like these. When the best part of the day is no longer a willing participant. Meh. One day maybe. Patience is a virgin. 

So it is 4am and I am not ready to deal with the world. Everything is in someone else’s hands and I prefer to be the driver. So I just close my eyes and head into traffic, hoping whoever is steering this thing has a plan. 

Yellow and blue checkered shirt with a sky blue polka dotted bowtie. Might be my favorite combo. I may strike out in life and love but my clothes are on point. I would dress like a homeless man for either. 

Today will be a success. It has no choice. We are better than our situations and we will rise up and live. Not really much of a choice I suppose.

Grab life by the hairy testicles and ride that bitch for 8 seconds. Yank out a few hairs for good measure. Then kick a kid’s soccer ball across the park because you are a badass mother fucker. For cereals. I am lucky to know you. 

I love and miss you. Bunches. But I am sure you already know that. 

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