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Supermoon, i feared you, i bought insurance to protect myself,
but Neil Degrasse Tyson cleared things up with his twitter pizza analogy,
he knocked me out in the first round with his wisdom and my Little Mac finger-arms rested comfortably.
i no longer am scared, i'm calm and composed
enough to compose
this on a blog no one reads or cares about, i am strong enough to pray alone.
the Pac is back,
when i watch his Ghostly Adventures and see that at the end of the 22 minutes
Pac's zit problem disappears conveniently because of the portal,
i wish i had a portal to fix everything,
or at least i wish i had my own tv show.
the kitchen is divided into two spaces, the one that is lit by a bright-white neon bulb
and the other side which has remained dark for 6 months because everyone is too lazy
to screw in a light bulb:
HOW MANY DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHT BULB? JUST ME, APPARENTLY...AND THOSE NEW PRICE-SAVER LIGHT BULBS ARE TRICKY TO SCREW IN, IT'S NOT AS EASY AS THE SAYING GOES.
what was so important that we denied ourselves light? no wedding or funeral can mean that much, can it? no job or relationship or party or necessary function we thought we needed to attend in order to continue functioning? a function function? it all fizzles away eventually, right? despite our best efforts, nothing remains except the dark
and the light we could have strived for.
finally i take time out of my busy schedule of watching tv shows and reviewing said tv shows to change the damn light, the bulb's glass housing is sick sticky with disgusting dust and grime and bug eggs nesting and making a home there, but it finally gets washed and screwed
and i'm screwed, because i forgot, we all forgot, that this side of the kitchen has a bulb which is yellow, distinctively different from the white side, so now our kitchen expresses a strange hue combination of white and yellow lights depending on which side you are on, a dizzying blend of the two colors if you're standing in the center of the room, bad for the eyes and brainwaves, so it ends up not really being a fix. perhaps that is why we never bothered to change it, our subconscious was allowing us to laze, the inner workings of our daily routines and patterns are forged through years and years of trial and error, i must learn to trust my body more and what it's whispering to me.
as i help Mom with packaging the cookies for the homeless, one chocolate chip in each plastic-bag half, i am blessed to be living this vignette and i pray to the Supermoon that the cookies she and i are preparing don't end up in my hands ten years from now when i am homeless. incurable mental illness has a consequnce, y'know, you can't skirt around the issue forever, ignoring it with video games and pomegranate cider doesn't disappear it, eventually i can't live here anymore.
i've been permanently living in the underground, my hands are stuck to the muddy walls, a doctor is needed to free me, no an archaeologist's pickaxe is needed. i shall become a fossil of futility. i shall never again escape to pop my head outside and breathe in the success, sex, love, money, and happiness of alive, active society. but do i have enough energy for one more song? can i spill a little of the aboveground sunlight onto me and the other mole people gathered here through my extra-sensory perception, by concentrating hard enough, by straining my third eye to recount tales of my past, when i was still healthy and walking down a bustling campus street? it's still the underground, but maybe it can be a
SUNSHINE UNDERGROUND, CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK.
but it's still my Mom and I jabbering back and forth over nothing, i must cherish this scene, don't know when this all ends, when the Supermoon will decide to strike, i worship out of fear the way any strong system is maintained. i guess i still do fear.
is any of this getting through? are my prayers empty psychological thoughts or are they real Pac-Man scared blue ghosts traveling through space to their intended target? Supermoon, the Sun of the Ancients, whichever Celestial Body will listen, does clasping my hands together, ruining my kneebones on the floor, does this stance help matters? do you hear me, see me imploring you for aid?
i beg you, i beg you, i beg you...let me not get used to begging
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