anandamide expense account
got to crack a few to make an omelet, and i’m walking on those eggshells. i want to preserve my brain in formaldehyde and carry it under my arm—ode to the meta: i dress like a professional, therefore i must be one; ________. run a table placing wafers under people’s tongues, but wonders that are wanted this time around (proffering propertied proprieties). at some point everything becomes service, whether it is for the self or not: you’re not singular in your profession of a love-labor. i too am whipped by a whip-smart mistress, a peripatetic imbalance, a migrating condition. if humanity cannot realize that education is the beginning and not the end, then it will continue living on means to ends, and i’ve got entirely different gluttonies with which to incriminate myself. got off on a bad foot by sticking it in my mouth, which was bigger than both my eyes and my stomach. we go faster than a speeding railroad track; there’s more to life than good bone structure. someday i will master impression management, when i am not myself, which is the creature always in more demand. i get the kindest rebuttals lately, so i must be doing something right. those rebuffs had to be nursed and earned. the mind should be more like a bookshelf and the soul more like a gallery, but they are not; and somehow i decided without my consent that anything not accessible through voyeurism was not worth knowing—did i see myself coming from a mile off. the ancients knew well being is at the bottom of a glass rather than from watching shadows and streaks punch themselves over the surface of one, a screen that’s smooth but does not, as the name insists, touch.