Bad Accounts

The mirth-man has returned for another Wordapalooza. Back from my walk and directly onto the lap-top dancefloor. Sandwich in the fridge is too far and too fattening. Where's the DJ? Play my Mega-Mix—the one with the chunes. Income-ing, the new pay-per-wordsmith. We used to have fun in this Blogtopolis; now we just kinda print money. I can tell already this'll be a short 'un. 39% battery and a dream. Gotta write a music review for my good comrade Brown Friend. Already wrote the intro and the outro—the middle is the middling miscellany: obscure references & assured sentences. Why would I need friends when you have Posts Like These? September is one of those months—can't waste its embroidered creative whisper-pleas. The energy of the twenty-seventeen New York Jetropolitans. I'm working on my Other Post.  See you-all there.