Hey Boy. It's smoke time. Tugging on your beard and you think it's weird but you don't make a sound and you force yourself to realize that it's alright, and we are all just a little sick in the head. Talking to yourself while looking in the mirror at all your flaws and faults you crack a smile and realize you're already gone. I pick a wussy strawberry box up from the farmer's market. 3.99 a box are you kidding me! This place sure does have the right stuff! I came and I came and I came and you went and we all had a great time. We all put our priorities in line. A smile on the face of a chronic depressed first dispatcher is worth more than your life. These people are saving lives. Step into a suit and you never have to wash buckets again it's like a time loop finally cracking to reveal what's right. Are you sure you are having a good night? Sorry for the short notice. Sorry for the drama. I think I'll take a nap soon and get this woozy boozy brain to the sleep train. Take the dyslexic taxi straight to a plate of Poutine. Smother yourself in curds and gravy. The blasts of microhouse echo throughout the deepest parts of Malibu Canyon. At the top is the house of a rich person you can never get to. Figuratively, literally. She didn't want the piece of jade. They all thought it was ugly but they forgot it was worth a lot. Then they cried. It's smoke time. Hey Girl.
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