my future ghost bakes cookies

Tonight, I shall eat a potato. Oh yes. Don't even try to stop me. There is just one lonely potato left. I shall microwave him because it's fun even though it makes the potato kind of spongy but potatoes are so good it barely matters and I shall mash it up with the left over canned peas and he will be king. I will eat the king. Tonight, tonight.

T is going to be all engineery tonight so I get to dine alone. Which I like because I can eat whatever small, weird bits I want instead of a normal, full dinner needed by metabolism-of-fire man.

So I have this interesting new manifestation of stress wherein my entire face is trying to scrunch up somewhere in the corner of my jaw. I can literally feel my shoulder and ear being pulled into my jaw! What in the hell? C'MON! Flying fuckballs from planet shittyshit! The only thing that relieves it is pressing really, really hard where my skull turns into my neck. That's okay, it looks perfectly normal to walk around with my thumb dug deep into the back of my head.

I bought some herbal tea from czarfucks thinking maybe that would help because...i don't know why. maybe I just wanted some. So I chose orangetastic-zinglicious-energygasmic-choo-choo of taste, flavour. I poured it into a glass to cool it off back here at my slave desk. Looks like a big glass of man pee. Almost orange, it's so piss-concentrated. Know what I mean? Why does guy pee look like that? So of course, all I can think about is how much it must taste like what a big glass of hot, steaming, fresh from the bladder man pee must taste like. Want some?

Christmas is coming and the goose IS getting fat. By goose I mean me and by fat I mean freaked. It's just all happening way to quick! All the snow disappeared a couple of weeks ago and there's just no time to relax on the couch in my pajamas watching my slave monkey wrap presents while my ghost(ya, that's right, my very own time-travelling, future ghost-me) bakes ginger and molasses cookies in my kitchen.

Instead, I'm at work, trying to unhinge my shoulder from my ear and finish off my steaming glass of pee while the snowless clouds hover over the skyscrapers of Montreal.

Since the boobwomen office next door moved out, I wonder if I could sneak around some corner and have a little nap on the plush carpet out in the shared hall. So quiet and boobless out there now. Maybe just hide out in the stairwell for a bit and relax. No one EVER uses the stairs here. Ever. By the way, I have seen four elevator factories in my life and they were all one-story.

Put that in your craw and smoke it.