February 8, 2009

World Tour: Floor Ball Game

Kate met up with some guy who gave her a thing at the game. She hasn't been speaking to me lately. I think that it's because she knows how to speak Finnish and is still mad at me for purchasing the third season of 'Newhart' on her credit card. She had just given me Blackberry privileges again, but instead of posting I was using it to follow celebrities on Gawker.com.

 I am currently experiencing one of the strangest experiences of the past week. It is hour 41 of my I can’t seep-a-thon (due to some herbal tea that a local construction worker gave me). After a strange setback and subsequent rebound I feel confident to tell you that I am able to present the following article of writing. 

Make sure that you keep an open mind and a hand poised with a fork, cause it will get steamy, so steamy that you can cook vegetables.  Yeah this will be interesting, because even though I don’t know how I will feel in the morning, I will have to wait and see. Just have to wait and see. It is probably the morning right now for you and you are tired let the coffee do its magic that’s why the English hate it.  

A poem I wrote in commemoration of the game: 

The Calculator General 
With an invasive nonclemature
Sorted today’s schedule 
Omitting the threat heeded by his forerunner
And with pleasure 
Remitted his remaining warmth 

He mitigated a modicum of 
Matriarchal slaughterhouses 
Its aromatic scenescapes presented 
Him with tidy appendages 
Streak-free torsos 
Macrame butcher blocks 
Scrap-booking breaks 
And quaint, but naturally outdated
Holding pens. 

He then pored over a plethora of
Patriarchal health spas 
hermeneutically assessing each
Luxury efficient cell
By measuring the 
intensive tissue relaxation 
and dividing by
The room color
In wave length 
To reach the “Snuggle” quotient. 

The peeling eyed papers 
Dripping from his hands 
He let out a 
Boorish yelp 
Spat thither at 
Moon baked remorse
As he remembered what
Warmth meant. 

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