Been trying to upgrade the fuel line to my subconscious, trying to get things up to OSHA spec, you know the drill, always finding lint in traps and USB drives with little mouths in them. You can only push a man off a horse so far before he settles down, buys a house in the country, has lizards with big green eyes and go "thhhhhhhhhh". Good mortgage rate, too. Enabling resynaptic rustic living, keeping it technological. Like in the old days. Still, those trash cans haunt like bad perfume in an overcrowded diner. Lately, I've been thinking I've been getting worse as a person: every time I ponder reaching out more to any of you, you snap like a flower at that moment, making me even resent the four-horsepower car-crash pornography expert in exile. I guess I'll plug in again, trying the forceps, scalpel, clamp, educational cartoon, grease. This is a special operation, and if we succeed, we don't even need to fire a single bullet.
- Don't lie about parameters, unless it would be very fun.
- Spill the past-filled ketchup bottle. Send the bad clusters to claims; we get credit for it.
- Holy fuck. It's half-human. If it was any less, we would have been able to sell it. Any more, it would be popular.
- You know what they say about bottles. And you did it to me, each just a little. Don't take it too hard.
Mission complete. Wild success. Give yourself a clap on the back, take off your boots, go home, sleep on/in a bed, forget about the whole thing. Don't get excited about tomorrow. It's just an extension of today. Don't worry about yesterday, it never matters anyway.
But you knew that already.