June

Man, this is the pits. The worst of bad lucks is kicking my ass this month.

Bad luck on my car. The Beast. Piece a shit won’t start.

Fast American steel from a nineteen seventy-two brew piece a shit to you . . . when it starts. By the way, are all mechanics colluding thieves? Sure seems like it.

Bad luck on Chris’s car too. Hit ‘n run runners, if caught, should be left at the mercy of the been hit.

Bad luck on my taxes.

Immoral IRS money takers suffocators heart-attackers. Granted I like the fact that my trash doesn’t collect more trash behind my home. And I also like it that I have a flushing toilet, I can call 911, I have electricity/power,

paved roads, blah, blah, blah  ~  but,

I still wouldn’t mind helping out the gene pool by castrating and defecating

on a few of these number crunching government payroll crooks. Never forget, it’s the illusion of democracy.

Bad luck on my presumptuous back. Thinking it was young like in ’85 when I could carry the weight of the

Enigmas

Women are such beautiful enigmas and I find myself @ a loss for words after thinking about her.

Her  .  .  .

I wonder if she’s masturbated to the thought of us sexing the lightning out of the energy we spin. Too bad I can’t ask her ~

for obvious reasons of course  .  .  .  and neveryoumind.

Time to switch gears n’ go be worthless for a while.

Maybe think about her the rest of the night while I’m trying to kick this needling confusion outta my head.

9.27.01
Victor Millan