Dead Cynics and Cricket Genocides

It's Saturday. It's fucking raining. I woke up two hours ago. I'm lost. My eyes are dry. I'm thirsty. I don't want to do anything.

I have a column to write for the paper. I have no fucking clue what it will be about. I have to finish an essay due four days ago.
I have to clean my room and do laundry.
I have to eat again within the next few hours.
I have to walk a considerable amount of distances before I sleep tonight.
I have to wake up tomorrow, knowing that my hours of free time will soon dry up.
I have to eventually write more interesting posts so people won't forget what I'm typing.

Just give me an hour and a half and I'll be outside in the rain. On a saintly voyage.

Last night, I wore my Sigil of Baphomet t shirt. The one of the goat's head in the pentagram.

This midget lady outside of the local food marketing facility was saying "God Bless You" to everyone who was donating quarters to some obscure poster with babies on it. It must have been about feeding orphans.

As I donated fifty cents to her cause. She didn't say "God Bless You."

What she did do is tell me the flower in my hair was nice, and that she liked it.

An hour before that event, I had left my institutional learning facility and wandered down to a freeway bridge. Ploof was leading Dishdawash and me to a deth machinus access route. The route turns into itself, and onto a motorway where thousands of the death machines travel every hour.

On this freeway turn off, there was a beautiful area. Flowers and succulents and trees all around, completely undisturbed by human feet. Until these moments.

I grabbed the white and purple flowers. The ones you see near overpasses, and rarely seem to grow elsewhere.

I put these in my hair and on my flannel cloth overskin. I cannot begin to tell you how many dirty looks I received from wearing these flowers in my hair and in my shirt.

As I traveled, wearing my satanic shirt and flowers, I became exhausted.

Once more, we returned to the food facility where I began this story.

Last night was therapeutic. Somewhat.

We returned to Medusa's hive and played chess and listened to 60's prog rock and made jokes.

Today, the Saints will travel to the View. The first time I've been since the third of October.

What a glorious day to be had.

Rebellion is so universal to the Saints
it ceases to exist.
Make sense?