After being embedded in mud for several days, James was unsure what to do. His wife had conveniently rolled off a cliff and his dog didn't ever exist. His life couldn't be better, apart from all the mud. While he carefully stripped caked gunk off his pallid face, he somewhat resembled a meta egg trying to peel itself from the inside out. "You can rush art, it just turns out shit." he thought. Some seaweed slipped off his shoulder. What the fuck is this. "Another day in the mud pit?", Larry squealed. "Slidin' all around so I feel so fine!" was his reply.
It's about time he jumped on his vespa and drove home. But he didn't, instead subjecting himself to a slight return into the mud pit. It oozed the pain inflicted upon him by his co-workers. It helped him sleep at night. It made him feel like a needle in a haystack, a cliche in a script, a piece of gold in a dried turd. Surrounding yourself really boosts your self-esteem, believe it or not. I definitely won't. Mud people are all the same, but that doesn't mean they aren't all the same brand of good.
His apartment door flew open at such a force that it was clear the hinges must be broken. As James burst into his apartment, his mud crusted jacket coughed debris in every conceivable direction. Little cups of mildly dilute mud paved a little path through his cardboard forest. He wondered whether there was enough brown caked on the windows. There was.
James laughed at the times where he would still need a rope in the mud pit. Amateur. Deep within it should always be about the free float and the cool spin, but the pit is closing too soon tonight. There was a presentation that couldn't wait.
As it sat solemnly on his coffee table, a toothpick replica of the world trade center was his only personal achievement against the shadowy world order. This lighter is the CIA. The matches are the Mossad. Do you get it? After weeks of drying, the glue still stank with a chemical musk. Now for the first time, the musk turned into a blazing fury.
The flames relentlessly ripped his body to pieces and melted most of his clothes, leaving only his fireproof wallet centered in exhausted goop. Within this wallet was a note. "Anyone who finds my body can keep the change, it's loose."
It's about time he jumped on his vespa and drove home. But he didn't, instead subjecting himself to a slight return into the mud pit. It oozed the pain inflicted upon him by his co-workers. It helped him sleep at night. It made him feel like a needle in a haystack, a cliche in a script, a piece of gold in a dried turd. Surrounding yourself really boosts your self-esteem, believe it or not. I definitely won't. Mud people are all the same, but that doesn't mean they aren't all the same brand of good.
His apartment door flew open at such a force that it was clear the hinges must be broken. As James burst into his apartment, his mud crusted jacket coughed debris in every conceivable direction. Little cups of mildly dilute mud paved a little path through his cardboard forest. He wondered whether there was enough brown caked on the windows. There was.
James laughed at the times where he would still need a rope in the mud pit. Amateur. Deep within it should always be about the free float and the cool spin, but the pit is closing too soon tonight. There was a presentation that couldn't wait.
As it sat solemnly on his coffee table, a toothpick replica of the world trade center was his only personal achievement against the shadowy world order. This lighter is the CIA. The matches are the Mossad. Do you get it? After weeks of drying, the glue still stank with a chemical musk. Now for the first time, the musk turned into a blazing fury.
The flames relentlessly ripped his body to pieces and melted most of his clothes, leaving only his fireproof wallet centered in exhausted goop. Within this wallet was a note. "Anyone who finds my body can keep the change, it's loose."
