Hello, friends. I would like to give a hearty PBUH to all the readers of Arabic descent and of the Muslim faith who have been visiting my site. I see you out there, blueyonder.co.uk and a-to-be-unnamed .sa internet service provider. It is my fondest wish that you, gentle reader (PBUH), understand that I am an inconsistent and confused person. I am very much aware that should heptapod.org ever become a vehicle for American goodwill towards the rest of the world then we're all doomed.
In short, it's called blowing off steam. Read anything else into these dumb essays and end up looking as stupid as me.
I discovered that one can acquire a degree in thanatology. Most hospitals have musical thanatologists who perform music to ease the suffering of a terminal patient. Reckon I don't want to look into that field because it's more interesting being alive.
Speaking of death, this morning I was hemmed in by these two trucks. One cement truck and another dump truck. I had to get over to the left so I could get off for my office and the fuckers kept toying with me, shadowing me then pulling up alongside me. I put on my blinker and the fucker decides to try and get into my lane. So I have to hit the brakes and this red jeep is coming up my ass and swerves around me.
The rest of my day was pleasant much to my surprise.
Once again I was in a huge hotel that had an atrium which rose to the top of the building, the top was lost in darkness. Instead of being stuck on the levels above the lobby, I was trapped in the lobby and mezzanine. A group of people had joined me because of a common mission to capture and kill someone who was irrevokably evil. Human evil, no supernatural elements to my dream. My mob tumbled forth from a darkened auditorium and the chase began in haste. Our quarry had a significant head start which was easily overcome with numbers. We cornered the bastard in a stairwell and beat him within a red cunthair of his life. It was important that he was publicly executed to prevent any Elvis-rumors or excessive martyrdom.
At the top of the grand staircase which led to the lobby, the bastard was propped up and the rest of the group had begun reciting the litany of his crimes, public and private, and how this deed will be unquestionable by any rational person. I figure it's time to leave, tired from the hunt, and wander further down the lobby. Near a jewelry counter I spot a little blonde kid. Suddenly I realize the bastard was going to die but his spirit was going to live on inside this kid. Our eyes meet and realization dawns leading to a one-on-one pursuit.
No one had a happy ending.
"But spivak," you ask, "what about Spot?"
Well Spot ended up biting my fat thighs in my sleep and each time she did I got a message in my head that I had $517,403 in my bank account. Easily distracted at such a financial largesse, I nearly forgot the earlier dream and just flipped through catalogs.
