There’s nothing more depressing, than feeling lonely. Crocheting? Well, maybe there is; But, at this moment, I can’t think of anything. You’re girlfriends are all out of town, doing their own thing. Vegas fuckers. Kid(s) are away at… whatever. “Ditch The Kids” camp? You have the house to yourself. Hello, hello, hello…. It echoes. You’ve eaten so many cheese quesodillas that you may actually hate cheese now. Never happen. Still loving cheese. Except the Bleu one… I’ll pass on the anaphylactic shock, thanks. Oh and you’ve been recently dumped by yet,
another “I’m here for a lifetime” hack. My favorite thing is when people tell you, I got you. Sarcasm. Not really my favorite thing at all. In my best male voice impersonation: “If you’re ever lonely, I’m here for you.” They’re lying. They don’t, “got you.” They just want to boink you. Like, the guy who’s ready to settle down after being “funtime guy,” for years, suddenly wants you to be open to committment and yet, when you text a “hey, I’m feelin a bit lonely… let’s cuddle” text his way… Crickets. Poo. Thick, mushy poo. Or, you’re in a fight with a mate, and instead of pushing aside the senseless spat about airline food to choose love and happiness-which, oddly enough, why you chose that mother fucker in the first place, because he balanced you out or some bullshit- he wants to keep fighting you and keep each party separated… yeah, and then dump you. Publicly. Thick, mushy, chunky poo. Guess, I’ll have my own party then. A spitting good time, llama party. Life’s too short to argue over nothing. Oh wait. Yup, my heart is chock full of thick, mushy, chunky, SMELLY POO. Oh, there it goes. It’s spewing. It’s spewing everywhere now. Is that a rotten egg?
I think llamas got it figured out. They chill on their sandy mountainsides. Or lush, grassy fields, chewing on their cud… Whatever cud is. I’d chew pretzel cud. Or gummi cud. If they ever made it. Llamas seem like independent creatures who don’t give two fucks about having company. Or a mate. When a space invader approaches, they spit. When their elbow room is getting crowded upon, they spit. When a feel a sneak attack sheathing upon them, they spit. I don’t kow much about llamas, but they like to spit a lot. I’m a lover, not a fighter. So, spitting may not be the weapon of choice for me. A lot of times, I’ll try to make amends, even if I’m right. Just to stop the arguing. I prefer to live in love and light. Although… when pushed into a corner, I will retaliate. That decides it then… I’m going to learn to spit. One more douchebag dumps me, I’ll spit. Llama spit. I’m thinking about it, and the more I do, the more it seems it may be a valuable tool. The Llama Tool.
The good news is, now that I’m roaming this big, bright world solo again, I will have more time to investigate llama ownership and it’s rewards. And, I’ll finally be able to figure out what the hell cud is…