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I don’t understand a word of this. One day, you say, “Beth is my best friend.” Twice. The next, you recoil, swearing up and down that “my husband is my only best friend.” As if I made the whole thing up.

It’s happening again, on a grander scale, as everyone around me goes insane. Screaming into the woods insane. Getting high and trying to fit a square container into a round hole insane.

Viruses don’t have vaccines. There is no vaccine for the cold. Colds last for a week. Colds can last for months, then come back and kill you. You can reinfect yourself 50,000 times over, just sucking the finger that you stuck in your asshole. Taste good?

The sky was never blue. The sky was always a gradient of a color you’ve never heard of. 2+2=5, dummy. Everyone knows that.

I just saw you do it. I didn’t do anything, you’re a liar. I have it on videotape. You doctored the videotape. You’re a racist. I’m an Asian. You’re a racist chink-cunt, go back where you came from. Unless you voted for me. Then, you’re okay. Where are your papers?

I’ve heard this tune a thousand times before. It always sounds like a Mentos commercial.

I helped you when you had nothing. You are not my friend, I don’t know you. You know, the old life raft analogy, because I need my pussy stroked by a fat bearded fuck who abandoned me on the side of Route 66 by Indiana.

Nothing makes sense. I think I’ll reheat my coffee and bake a batch of Christmas cookies no one will eat, because they’re on diets. I’ll throw the rest out.

It’s the thought that counts.

Originally published at on December 13, 2020.

Jazz Medium©: Feeling the music, one review at a time.

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