I’ve abandoned blinking. I just fold inward a millimeter.
Eventually, i'll become folded chair.
Eventually, i'll become folded chair.
All cereal boxes... I FEEL HOW THEY SPIN. YOU FEEL ME?? I feel when rainbow fall. MY BUS STOP STARTED TO FLY INSTEAD OF BIRDS. DOORS OF MY BUS RIDE OFF WITHOUT THE BUS. WE MAKE HISTORY MY DEAR NONSENSERERS.
We're so back.
I licked a doorknob and transcended taxes. The soup tribunal declared my elbows illegal, so now I can only communicate via screams muffled through a sock full of beetles named Craig. Every third sneeze turns my neighbor into a temporary foghorn. I challenged the sun to chess and it responded by mailing me 40,000 live clams stapled to a VHS of Shrek 2 narrated entirely by bees with IBS. There’s a duck in my ceiling speaking in riddles made of expired mayonnaise and I fear it has diplomatic immunity. I birthed a microwave from pure spite. My DNA is 30% yogurt. I taught a chair how to feel pain and now it sues me every Tuesday during crab court. I no longer blink — I just implode slightly. My fridge knows too much. The noodles have unionized. I am the smell.
Anyway, you guys ever emotionally bond with a traffic cone during a thunderstorm while your cousin becomes a lowercase letter?
The porridge elders believe that waffles, no matter how ambitious, should never leave the breakfast table. "Get back on your plate and accept your drizzle!" they told me. So I fashioned a spaceship from maple-syrup bottles, pancake flippers, and discarded croutons, and named it the SS Crumbchaser. I ended the Sandwich Wars but still they torment me with the inadequacies of my nooks and crannies.