Another Untitled Ramble.

(This one started off as me and Avery Collins, but Kneesmith butted in halfway through and Avery was offended out of it.)

I don't want to start this. How many times will this pen run out before I forget. Butter, milk, and eggs. Only three goddamn things. I hate my brain.
These bullets continue to taunt me..."to-do"..."to-do"...who the hell writes these things down? Lists are merely excuses to have feeble minds. Feeble minds feed common indecency. Feeble minds, feeble bodies, feeble hearts. We are-- man fuck "we," they, they are weak... I denounce my humanity, and will hereby be classified merely as a "Timothy," first and last of my race, and I will not tolerate any discrimination. I want to make some changes around this place, as such an important individual I must do important things...maybe a pb&j? We Timothys have always been fond of pb&j. I should take my newfound special classification to Congress, I deserve benefits for the rarity of my race. Based on how much land given Native Americans, I should get Minnesota or something. Or at least a Timothy day or maybe even some sort of badge. ha. This is too much for me. This is taking me forever to finish and I'm still starving. Maybe I could cut the mold out of the bread and scrounge up those tomatoes Shirley bought me last week. Or was it two weeks ago? No, no that was Kate. She's nice, but Frank swears she's manic depressive. I suspect orangutan tits under those loose blouses. bitch. I need to get this shopping done, but that would require some sort of human mingling, and I don't play that shit. I look at the clock, it's been four hours since I first sat down at the kitchen table with this notepad and pen. And they say no one ever starved to death from ADD. This is starting to feel just like some twisted dream. I stopped taking my meds weeks ago, people keep telling me to start doping again. That's all they are, really. Just fancy dope. And then gears started to turn inside his head, dust was shaken from his eyelids as they widened to the rhythm of what alcoholics commonly refer to as "a moment of clarity." He reached for the phone muttering that jingle he knew all too well, "Tuesday two for one/Eatin pizza, havin fun." That place has some shitty-ass pizza. Too much sauce, not enough crust. And they're known to slip anchovies in different orders from time to time.

(No, all my posts won't be these things, I'm working on two longer stories right now, but they will probably take a while.)