Life as Chicory.

So I mowed the lawn, hung over and over heated.

And I wrote. I used to be writing all the time, but lately there's this eerie quiet in my head that spends some of the time laughing at me and alternately waiting for me to notice that I haven't noticed the quiet and then pointing fingers laughing at me.

I was a waiter, but I wasn't really waiting on tables, I was waiting for time with a pen and watching everything. Yeah, I used my story, but I told it from the POV of a stranger and all the things I guessed about him while he ate lunch. That's the thing I learned too late, your story is boring. My story is boring. Tell it again. I told the story of someone passionate, because I rarely am. I told the story of someone engaged and reckless, because I am detached and careful. This, these words here; these are lies, too.

But I did mow the lawn and I did write and there's a very new quiet. There's no accusations when the words come.

The best thing is realizing the way the world works and having the sudden revelation that I'm wrong about one thing:

The universe is not random.

I'm not approaching Deism or anything, in fact the opposite - God is a plant. Vegetable matter. God giggles when we screw and controls our advertising and our movie releases. God wants you to be Vegan. God made all television digital and when I buy the stuff I mix up to kill the Creeping Charlie and the Clover it feeds them. I don't know if God switched the stuff or if it made it that way, falsely packaged from the inception,

But i know God is a weed and God is very, very hungry.

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