"And Though It's Hard To Tell You This...."

i'm too sick to write these days. expect not much. expect nothing. which is what you've been getting in spades these days so continue to expect the expected.

this will be shit.

expected.

expectorated?

that's spit.

close enough.

a lotta' both these days. because i am sick. how a body loses 7 pounds in 7 days i do not know but hope to find out. or do i? see, there, you sonofabitch Shakes, is the rub.

what we can rule out with absolute, unquestionable…something…? my fucking head hurts with a terrific pain that is not at all terrific. i can't — don't — think straight: not these daze.

what Annie 100% Sonic Youth Truth does not suffer from:

1) testicular cancer.

2) diabetes. i peed on a stick, if you recall. meaning, you read the blog. meaning, you read the blog and are at all able to recall what you read. jesus christ, the Lab just farted and i do believe i'll die from gas poisoning before the doctors ever figure out whatever's actually wrong with me. now that i think about it, maybe that is what's wrong with me: every damn animal on this Orwellian Farm is out for my blood. the Labrador. the Dachshund puppy. THE HORSE.

the wiener dog lives up to his name in more ways than one. we named him after my mother's favorite singer… Willie Nelson.

wiener dog.

Willie.

every time i so much as lay a finger on him, that phallic phucker rolls over and, with bashful expression, excitedly pumps boner-fide pee, his rig spillin' oil faster than BP's. Texas Tea! southern hospitality! so hospitable, gonna land me in a hospital!

i shit you not one shite—nor piss you one trickle.

yet, i love the little dick. he's adorable. aren't all women suckers for dickheads?

yeah, i know. no, i don't care. i'm sick, tired, and if you don't know me well enough yet to expect this sort of vulgar expectoratin' well then…go phuck yourselph.

the Lab: okay, Sport is old, suffers terrible arthritis and hip dysplasia so every time he stands, walks…moves…his bowels loosen, and if he really gets a movement on—catches sight of a bird or cow or…fly…decides he's gonna give runnin' a go? yeah. soon as he's done, poor guy comes gimping back here, to my carport office, falling into terrible splayed displays, then five feet away from me he stops—and dumps a hugeantic load of shit in the most vile pile you can imagine. so imagine it, because i have to witness it every fucking day several times a day. also, when excited into a barking tizzy by aforementioned bird, motionless cow or a Whitty blade of grass, Sport-o spurts farts like bullets of gas. i mean, machine-gun succession and when it's 2 in the morning and you're still up because you're in too much fucking pain to even think about a wink—just the notion is laughable—so you're in the carport office Facebooking your pathetic "life" away (dull dulls the pain) with only the barely-there-glare of the claptrap laptop monitor serving as light and from the not-too-distant distance there comes a steady stream of extraordinarily loud Uzi fire?

you about shit your pants.

THE HORSE: people who know me and know me well know i hate…THE HORSE. because he hates me. Ranger. yeah, we're super-original with the pet names around here. Sport and Buster, the dogs; Ranger, THE HORSE. we once had a cat named Fuzzy. sooner or later, there will surely be a bird named Tweety.

back to the fuckin' HORSE.

he is evil on four legs. bites at me, scares the (sorry to overuse the term but i told you, i am drain bread) everloving shit outta' me (and others. see: Little Brother) by carefully hiding around corners then…stands in wait, motionless until you walk out the door, casual, nonchalant, mid-conversation, look to your right and—

BAM!

the fuckin' evil eye of…THE HORSE.

Little Brother almost collapsed after one of those encounters. truly terrifying. i felt terrible for him. which is why i pointed and laughed at him for many, many, just several, countless minutes.

THE FUCKING HORSE spends most of his time standing in front of The Puppy Pen (aka, Folsom Prison. we also have a Jack Russell pup, Wailin', named for, yes, Waylon Jennings, but spelled different because he takes to, yes, wailin') and THE HORSE stands there all day long, purposefully, merely to instigate, rile the pups into barking FUHRER. (ya' think Annie gets any naps during the daytime hours? you do? well then, you're a fucking moron.) the only time THE HORSE leaves his purposeful post is post-dinner: post-oats. why? WHY?

so he can amble on over to Annie's Place, lift his tail and dump shit-tons of fertilizer all up in my FACE. not to mention (but mention i will!) his midnightly strolls that just-so-happen to coincide with Sport's barks at the moon. why's he feel compelled to lone ranger his way on over?

to let fly from his ass gas that could:

1) knock a plague of flies off a shitwagon.

2) knock back a sonic boom.

i bet i have Swine Flu.

******

number 105 is not alive, folks. especially when it's stretched out over a long, small-boned, 5'8" frame.

but it is up from the 104…ish of a few days ago, so that's something.

sorry, Mom, but i didn't want to freak you out into any further stress. secretly weighed myself after the "I suddenly feel compelled to take a seat in the middle of the driveway!" episode. but—hey!—last night's 3 pounds of General Tso's tseems to have tstuck, tsoooo…that's tsomething… right?

100% definitely not testicular cancer.

more than a slight chance of toxic gas poisoning…

my pack-and-a-half-a-day smoking "habit" surely helps rather than hinders whatever health crisis this might be. which reminds me…

Hel-looo, Lovah…

some residual something from the 7-ish years of narcotic abuse? i dunno. seriously—i dunno because my brain—memory—is so annihilated, i don't remember fuck-all about 7-ish years ago, much of what occurred during those 7-ish years, much less what the hell i did or said yesterday. this morning.

who the fuck are you?

what was i saying?

oh yeah. regardless of whatever the hell is wrong with me, one thing is certain:

i definitely get to keep my balls.

******

fresh cigarette's a'lit

i spin to a '59 Sound.

the choking in my spit,

what i must bleed upon the ground:

"Here's lookin' at you, Kid."

******

i say, i say, this shit's for you, Motherfucker.

fuck typos.

******