Where's Your Tongue?

As you may have noticed (see recent entries), mine spends an exorbitant amount of time between my cheeks, not sheets, cheeks, not those cheeks, either, cheeky witch. Especially since I moved into this pisshole (not pizza with a sole), where the toilet seat needs bleach spray before every use which opens the door to all sorts of asshole humors. Once upon a time there was a wonder about how serious you, dear reader, should take my rambling. Now, in case it matters, I don't think it matters anymore. I don't sleep or eat or do much of anything as if I care about myself, so why should you? Even if you were here and not just memories and figments of my imagination. Email died again. It comes and goes, like everything else.

All I can do is hole my breath until someone cares.

Narf :)