Count the lines on your ceiling, please.

Have you ever wanted to shrink down and go inside somebody's body to find out what made them hurt or how they work? I want to do that to myself right now. My body keeps hurting in different spots. First my right side, then inside my lung and now in my neck. It feels like the veins in my neck are a highway and everything is at a standstill. A plumber is standing on the hood of his F150 swinging a pipe wrench at passing cars, screaming about lunch or marriages.

I need a haircut. It's at the point where it either needs to be cut, or it needs to grow for another 6 weeks so I can write about this same thing again. 

I hate when I want to post something on this blog, like a link or whatever, and I can't remember if I've already posted it or not. I think it's bad that I'd have to check to know.

**

So what kind of music do you like? I like to categorize music based on how fast it is. Right now, I'm listening to a song that churns dirt and moves like tank treds: slow, crushing bugs that had no idea the tank treads weren't just a small sheet of clouds moving westward. This song is like a machine, and I want to open it, remove a part, and see if it still works.

Bricki-di-roaw!
Steppin' out the crowd throwin' bolo's.
Flicki-di-flame, owh!

Twin chrome .44's
Loadin' it up, packin' it back, ready to splash for real.
Spit flows out the gail, God tried to bail
It's hectic, 4-5-6 gimme ya grips:
that's more dollars in them tongues in them go-go chicks.
Bitch I'm drunk, pumpin' slugs out of canon
Shot ya after-party down with Meth and Red in
check it, bricks and Shaolin, NO JOKE!
And when I hit the pussy,

call me Daddy Long Strope.
Or Ana, I'm hittin' pigeons out in Atlanta
Banana--Split, HOT TWO...SPIT! OOH SHIT!
Spickin' ya rippin' ya four or ya funds
I wet ya like a 141 waterguns
Cocky like Rocky, got ya scared to death!
So hold on ya bitches, cuz here come RED-METH!

Somebody somewhere is trying to write something that fantastic. Or trying to create a beat that rolls with that cadence. Hip-hop is poetry, I'm going to keep saying it. I'm like the pushy corner preacher rubbing his bible. I'm persuading you to come and I get the 2-for-1 soup and salad or the pasta buffet. You're hungry, right?