Gold Colored Prisms Of Light

Right. Thanksgiving is a son of a bitch. It's always the same. You show up at a buddies house and the noise of 50 screaming children give you a migraine. You go home and call mom and pass out from the pain.
Then, when you wake up, you realize it wasn't the children giving you a migraine but the flu. The bloody flu. That bastard hits hard. You fight it and hit it with everything. Fluids, medicine, exercise and food bash against the flu. You called out everything you have for a 1st round knockout. It wobbled a few times and looked like it was about to go down. But that motherfucker was just waiting for the bell. And when it rings he smiles at you because he knows you just blew your wad and now your ass is his. That motherfucker hits hard. Christ I feel like digging my own grave.
I am thankful for you.
Fucking Army man. I can count on my balls how many times I've been sick since I was like 7 all the way up until I joined the Army. Now I am on my deathbed once a month.
No. Kate Beckinsale wins and always wins. Enough caterwauling.
Do you remember when Dennis Rodman was famous? Me neither.
Unkind didn't get the job and I am pissed off about that.
Are you new? Have we met?
I love strawberries. They rule.
I can't write the last paragraph any more. I try and I just can't. That is what accounts for my lack of blogging. I have nothing left. I am sorry. Maybe I could buy you a ginger ale and we can call it even. Or maybe you can make me a meatloaf and we can call it even. Or maybe the faded rose smell she left will leave my sheets. Or maybe you can come over and help me unpack and ask questions getting to know me in a way no one else does, blissfully unaware that every answer I give is a lie. Maybe you know every lie I tell is 80% truth. Maybe if I stab this to death I can give you what you want.