Opening Spray

     Two twenty-five on-a-Thursday. The first real day of spring, aka the start of the baseball season. My Philadelphia Prospects are about to take the World Cup with ease.
     On my other blog I'm tryin'a write of review of the new Jpegmafia. Death Grips with more blog-bytes per minute. Just a fucking killer record though. Peep it.
     Pie PMing me anime tiddies while I'm trying to break shit to this industrial glitch-hop. Don't make me post some 3DPD my man. I got jpegs hiding in sub-folders you wouldn't be able to crawl. Fucking nerd.
     Whoops, I'm talking out loud again. This new barista is acting like I don't own this own this scrub-hole. I'll sometimes stay 'til closing time and collect the spare 3 hour old brews they were about to dump. Nope, overweight neck-beard in the Reddit goggles: that's my coffee--pour it down my fucking throat.
     So about the new barista--we're kinda on a first-name basis. Kinda on a first pour "taste this." Slipped her my digits once and she seemed to throw them in a plastic bag which I figured was her temp-purse because she forgot her other o--
      So now I'm sipping on this mocha-frappe thing I ordered five hours ago. The drink is somewhat neutered by now, but this cardboard cup is surprisingly scrumptious. Back to my artisanal coffee mistress: she's drowning in five dollar specialty drink orders from the newly-free high schoolers. Her light brown work-eyes are shifty and disinterested. She catches me in a very precarious immersion re: her formal constitution. Oh fucksy, what that a muttered scowl? The message hath been received. I will take my respectfully observant ways elsewhere. Fin.

March Something

     Hello readers, writers, dreamers—flighters. It's been a little while since we've checked in on this bloghouse. Fuck, are the Christmas decorations still up? Someone pass me the eggnog. USE BY: JAN 15. That not too bad, right? Cheers.

     It's March Something; it's probably between 35-57 Fahrenheit degrees out, but I'm going to properly observe the outside world through the reflections of this recently-dusted laptop screen. Fractal tree limbs and other visual stimuli.

     My friend Celestaphone released his 87th album this week, the beautifully tragic Portrait of a Harlot. Send him some shekels in my name please.

     I've been listening to a lot of Sharon Van Etten, who is supposedly from my town. Try Our Love and fall in love ... with the delicate arrangements, you lonely perma-virgin.

     Updates and slut-tapes, what else you fuckface? Whoops, wrong blog. We livin'. Just like my Peach on Dreamland. Just like my Kirby on, uh—anyway.

     Spring is in the cards, my boys & grills. If my calculations are correct, in about two weeks it should be 63° every single day until June. We'll write novels about the struggles of being white in this increasingly colorful world. At the end, our white protag will befriend a not-entirely-white persona non grata and learn key things like "empathy" and "slavery was bad." In our last scene our colored comrade will unfortunately die so our Caucasian hero feels max suffering.

     N. E. Way. Fin. I'll return soon as spring returns to unfreeze my creative inclinations. For now, I'm off to discover music, in order to prep my conservational arsenal for any dreaded "social outing[s]."