I'm Just Gonna Type

It is incredibly difficult to simply type. For me, this stream of consciousness bullshit invovles many many many typos which I feel I have to back and evaluate as soon as I create them so that it is never even an issue that they existed in the first place. I don't like to post edit my posts but rather edit everything in real time, take out the typos where they live as soon as we know where they hold up base so they can never eat our grain again. I'm used to this small keyboard, to the point where all other keyboards of larger sizes seem bulky and unsexy. The key to typing is typing sexy. You've got to think sexy or else the whole thing comes out like a vacation blog by some guy in the Appalchia's who takes lame pictures of llamas and sens 'em to his parents for approval and reaffirmation of their lineage. It involves no narcotics or psychidelia's for me to be sexy. I insert Tic-Tac's for my poor breath, not for the buzz off flying. Honey Nut CHeerio's sit on my desk, but they don't inspire me none, because I haven't eaten them in a long time because I ran out of milk and am too lazy to buy, steal, or acquire any by any other available means. Plus my bowl is dirty. Yes, bowl singular, because college level dishery is sitting plainly below the valley of the light, lest Sam Hill, who is a real hill by the by, number nine number nine nmber nine. A hundred times a hundred is not algebra; you can't claim any of the above because there is nothing above but sky, you are flying in an airplane of lies and truth is your only parachute when it crashes. But truth is really a rock, and this is really one of those Looney Tune cartoons, or perhaps a modern cartoon that has pilfered this concept, but either way you know you can't hit the ground unless you know it's there. This doesn't count as poetry because it doesn't rhyme and I'm not reading it to a hippie girl while listening to Cat Steven's on vinyl on my bed in hopes to get to second base. No, not those fashion of words, but this fashion of words. You may interpret them as you wish, because I only have three wishes left and I plan to use them all. Plants was what I was going to type: Typos are the dada of the computer age. We can fly if we pretend long enough. But why would we want to fly when all the alcohol is on the ground? Why drink alcohol when all the houses are turning blue around us? I'm not on drugs. A big talking cigarette is all I need, from an early age, to tell me that I need not these elements of science to spew dumb shit from my mouth. Others need to drink to dance. Others need to smoke to be cool. Others need. I need not. I am. Need is divergent. Need is important, though not needed. Why need when there are those who need better things than you? The cool ones know they're not cool, which is a quandary because if you know you're not cool simpy to know that you're cool, you wear black and cross your arms in the corner and you pout when handed plants. You shave youir head to draw a line. I draw lines in order to put wacky charecters with strange ideals and syntax between them. I don't know what they say, they're them. I might be them, but all in all I am here and they are there and you are you and we are us and let's dance because only when we dance are we friends. In the workplace we're hungover and angry, but dancing brings out the soul from the soulless cashier. It's no wonder that the @ symbol is placed directly above the 2.

Stream, baby.