Weary of being meat

Weary of being meat

That’s right. I’m weary of being meat.

Too damn long in a grinder. Too damn long feeling fibers pulverized and made shapeless. Give me grist and I will grind. Feed me bones.

Time and Times

Time and Times

Time and times are dictated by what you do and how you perceive the events that affect you.

Time accumulates, like water in a pond; then vanishes, evaporates, is absorbed or just used to irrigate some weed. You can use it while it’s there or take it for granted, but if you try to save it you’ll just find it gone when it’s needed most.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

It’s Not You, It’s Me

This happens every few years; trust me. It’s a fine-tuned piece of clockwork that gets out of sync, needing an equally fine-tuned piece of Norse, hammer technology to carefully bring it back into precise alignment. Even gentlemen in tailored day suits and monocles cannot predict it, nor can they prevent it. Despite the best scientists, regardless of the bones and tea leaves used to foretell its coming, the shit happens. You may know not “when” but you can plan bowel movements and bets around the certainty.

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