The Sabbath.
I don’t know why my synaptic relays are so delayed but the purpose of stating aforementioned information is to give explanation for the oncoming rant ‘bout to go down. (double neutral)
Oh wait, I know why they’re so slow. I’m about as dehydrated as a tampon and I probably still have all of those drugs in my body. (Not a reference to Thieves Like Us’ Drugs in My Body, although I’m proud of myself for catching that just the same.)
I realize that when one is more or less sobering up, thoughts tend to feel cloudier and slower- and though that is currently the case for me, it’s appropriate to point out that an unusual level of clarity can be appreciated through all of this fuzz. It’s a nice sharp focusing in on certain ideas or thoughts formerly ruminating in a neural-purgatory. Such as my once obsession with transcendentalism and witty douchey men. Both of which I’ve yet to understand how they were ever even allowed to consider taking a back seat in my brain-let alone any seat. These are the things my life is made of and therefore they should be be standing, possibly dancing all up in my frontal everything lobe.
Why am I listening to Brandy? Why not.
I’m unable to finish my rant.
I miss conjugating my imagination.
