Whitey on the moon

took a field trip to the south, purchased mexican breakfast food and consumed most of a pork belly in its processed form. walked north past a transit depot named after Jackie Gleason, past an upscale cemetery with a placard out front celebrating how they were no longer neglecting the graves of Civil War veterans after a bit of a lapse. traded in some of my personal junk bondage for only sort of necessary footwear.

proceeded into the sixth reich of park slope

language had two functions, cell phone cameras just have one.

and in the end, it’s probably not un-Christian to have a food coop, get together on some special treats, share them with your fellow (accredited and vouchsafed for) man and woman, and then, for winter evenings, also have a reflective vest so that special food coop members are less likely to get run over by cars or some shit. but in the end, we’re all going to the big farmer’s market in the sky.

cameo apples being sold off a ralph lauren-esque preppy-damaged Ford F150 across the street from Beyonce and Jay-Z’s condo building bring me closer to nature. God created all the fertilizers and manhands that went into breeding mr. and mrs. apple, just like he created capitalism or something.

believing in civil liberties is a upmarket vanity. or something.

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