Insomnia blog

Thinking too much never did an ounce of good for sleep. If a furniture salesman needed kindling, I think that there would be a time and place to break out the axe.

This post is more like poetry than something to crunch your brain up around. I get all preachy sometimes, and the message really, is check your friends and family members for signs of cancer, autism, or mesothelioma.

I can connect these bad sentence structures to any part of your house, home or handheld device because of manifest destiny. If I were to make a word salad, would you care to try some? Would you like it with the Dijon Balsamic? Honey mustard gas?

Every squirrel just wants to fly. Spending his days, arguing with the birds over what time to wake up. Foraging. Chewing. All in the shadow of their bath. The birds didn’t create it themselves, they retained it in the inheritance settlement.

I will ride my flying jetski until you pry it from my cold, wet hands. I’m tired of life on four wheels. Or even two. Let’s leave the confines of the terraform and can-can at the kardasians. I’ll pull you on this rope.

Hang on, things are gonna get weird.

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