Chaos Bits

My coworker looks over at me today and says "Does Motorhead at high volumes actually cure disease?" Silly question. Of course they do. It's an immuno-stimulant that allows me to deal with this insufferable corporate whoredom.



It's summer, so that means tequila. Lots of it. After 4+ days of 114 degree heat, the thought of bathing in it is becoming very attractive. I sit out on the patio with a glass of something pricey and properly snobby (but not fucking Patron) and listen to trees scream at ultrasonic frequencies because some dickhead decided a decidous oak tree native to the northeastern part of the country should fit in just fine the fucking desert, you know, despite the lack of seasons or water or soil with actual nutrients.



Yes, with enough tequila, you can hear the trees scream. You generally also become super strong, witty, and can drool with pinpoint precision.



Really, there should be more saxaphone in black metal. It's a properly chaotic sounding instrument. Trust me on this.



I've rarely given much thought to my wardrobe. The other day I was looking at my clothes and I realized that other than garments specifically needed for work, I have bought nothing new in this particular department in a very long time. Possibly due to the seizures and projectile vomiting that occured in three previous attempts to get through a department store. Something about the eye-fuck seasonal colors and the toxic vapor cloud hanging over the perfume section. Next thing you know my friend is throwing water in my face and I've got bits of someone else's clothes and flesh hanging from my teeth and was quoting Oscar Wilde in broken Yiddish. Or so he claims.



You know what I haven't done in a while? Bowling. Just saying.