Sally and Bob met at the store one day. Sally asked Bob if his efforts to mow the lawn were successful. Bob said that, though he labored continuously for several hours the previous day, he still was not finished. Sally was amazed by this. How could a block of land so small take so much time to manicure? Sally's father is head of the department at a nuclear power plant. Though he has teased his brain with hallucinatory drugs for the past forty years which has led him to experience minor permanent side effects, such as green spots that linger in the bottom right field of vision in his left retina (the spots talk to him on occasion and are quite reliable weather predictors as a matter of fact. This is still a mystery to current research however and has been appointed foreground priority by the chief of chemical configuration at berton and assoc.) he is still able to find time to fulfill his love of rabbit cage cleaning, a hobby that provides him with a deeply spiritual stress relief. And such. Sally came to the conclusion that since Bob lived so close to this particular nuclear power plant, the very nuclear power plant at which her father was a contributing technician, the cranial degradation that he was victim to must have been from the prolonged exposures to radioactive mice that stumbled out of the plant's secret testing laboratories and who liked to wander into his bedroom as he drew cartoons of harry truman boasting orange-rimmed eye-glasses.

The only thing that matters, I suppose, is becoming the metaphorical asshole everyone expects you to be. Go buy your sanctuary in levittown where they will include the washing machine to salinize the shit stains off your bib that you wipe your tongue on after licking clean your boss's ass and the semen remnants after fucking his daughter. Don't forget to consider the box they will include that will bring you out of your misery and delirium into a state of bleak vegetation, returning you finally to your primitive state like the hunter who fought for your liberty to sit on your ass and create a market economy that sends infants to the foreground upon arrival. Don't make me force the civility upon you.

All I can think about are the lemons we picked at your grandmother's house. They were infested with green-leaf anteaters and red-headed lesbians and I could barely get a word in with all of their laughter echoing from the courtyard gates and bouncing off the amplified stereo speakers that god put right next to the side porch. We were alone for a moment and all I could believe in were the soft pillows that reflected in your eyes and I couldn't wait to get back into the study with the door that locked alexander's gates so we could reciprocate the sunshine emanating from the dragon's lair where his captives were doing lines off the redwood table where the three beaver heads sandra had collected for hibernation sat with expressions of lusty blindness. I don't like you anymore because you take me away from the state when I thought I knew what an object was.

I woke up and it was bright outside. All I could see were the rabbits chasing each other as the trees swayed in the background. I smelled the paint on my hands. It smelled red, but I just couldn't think about it because I felt belligerence rising from the snake. I took care to repress it back into the box, but its fangs were like the twisted wires of your teenage years. I used to get caught in wires like those when I ran home from the meadow after playing dress-up. Torn open and more painful than hell when the devil melts sharp gouda cheese. I asked gently if it would kindly leave. 

We swam over, but not without difficulty because we were lost in the jungle. On the second try we felt success and entered the open arms. Seated halfway in the chair, I awaited my turn. Smooth. Apportion. Spread. Roll. Twist. Lick. Light. I watched amazed and could barely keep my head up in the sea of infatuation. I could see the eyes, but I could not yet tell. If I couldn't tell then, it will be a while before I can even hope to.It was my turn and I embraced it. Actually no. I voraciously exhausted it, but ignorantly. A few more. Then a bottle beckoned with its firey substance. He would help me enter the real world. Then I sat down on the wooden cat and my drums felt the melodies until my retinas analyzed their movements and I glanced over at my companion and the worms on her branches were floating higher than the yellow-ribbon kite skiing up overhead, carefully avoiding the hummingbirds that swayed with pink highlighter fins. I felt cupid dancing on my lips and tried to catch him with my tongue, was unsuccessful,  but the efforts were not terminated. All I could think about was myself. And yet there was nothing there. And then suddenly everything would be. They came back and I tried to join, but didn't know how to participate in such motor coordination. Then I felt the snake rising up and I had to get out of there, only enough time to pinch my companion and jump back into the cup. Did anyone know? I sure hope so. I have been living with my eyes closed!