TeddyBearWithSexHair

Need to un-clutter my brain. Need it out. Need to get it out. I need to focus. I did my driver's test the other week, passed it after a failing first attempt. Fuckers got me on the technical questions. Turns out I'm too cautious. But oh well. Have to keep typing. Can't stop. Need to get my mind focused. Wonder how actual writers do this for a living? Just force themselves to sit there and write? Huh. I'd end up falling asleep if I did that. Maybe if I did one of those five hour energy drink things, I could hunker down and stare hard enough for words to come out. Have you ever heard of The Eels? They're pretty awesome, even if it is just one d

~~~~~~~ Rain pitter patts across the graveyard, the fat drops drawn towards the blue, makeshift tent covering a burial. A large crowd, mostly men and women in dark, pressed, police uniform, some small families, a few random loners, all surrounding the open casket at the center of the unhappy mass. The occupant of said pine box is a tall older man, graying brown hair, stone faced, and his wrinkles, now worn grooves adorning his face, marks of pride honoured by hard working men. A brass police badge shines brightly on his chest, his arms draped at his waist and his fingers loosely crossed as if he was praying. Two figures are standing opposite

A man and his house If one looks about the sky at a certain time of day, on a certain day on the calendar, in a certain place on the map, they'll see a small cloud floating by. The cloud is quite special, in its own right for atop its fluffy climax; it holds a man and his house. He is a normal man, bathes and shaves in the morning, eats toast with a little butter and jam, reads what literature he has while in the restroom, and even leaves for work after breakfast. The house is normal as well, it has no supernatural powers, it has lights that flick on and off with the touch of the switch, it has a glass window on each wall and a small porch o