little pieces of myself, strung out over half a mile, hanging up and down the black-streaked sides of the concrete barriers of the freeway. i think, more than anything, i'd like to start playing world of warcraft. that or grow my hair out and tell people to call me, jesus the conqueror. and to only greet me with the scalps of my enemies. my enemies being, of course, pudding. or cold soups. they're hideous. it's like drinking from a pool of stagnant water. so cold and lumpy. and the fucking neon lights are everywhere. miniskirts and cowboy hats and stringy sweat-matted stripper hair. everything keeps spinning. perpetually pinata. perpetually spinning spinning. i want it all to slow down. tear down the trees. it's not time to decorate for christmas yet.