Folk punk is corny as fuck. Truckers are horrible deviants.
The truest jihad happens in your own human heart. My kid asked me about whether
souls were real last night, because of The Simpsons episode where Bart sold his
soul. I wasn’t sure how to answer, because we all had older model iPhones
laying around, and I didn’t want the state to seize custody of my children. I
love them too much for that. Obviously I believe we have a soul, but I also
know you can’t say obvious shit anymore. You’re supposed to be obtuse, and faux
clever, and do everything with a Kate McKinnon smirk smile, and head west
towards the destiny that was manufactured for you, as the empire plunges over
the edge of our flattened Earth. I practice in my mind at landing on edges
while falling through space, so when it all falls apart, goes over the edge, I’ve
at least practiced finding a crevice to catch onto, and try to survive a few
extra months or years or whatever. I used to do that with a tire flying off my
shitty truck, and then one day riding the interstate to be part of a class in
the Richmond City Jail, my whole driver’s side front wheel flew off, on I-64,
right by the Glenside Drive exit. So prepare for the worst, and don’t be cute
about it. The worst is never as cute as you think it might be.
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