A Sample of Your New LuckMike Young
Neither of us signed up for this scrutiny, bear-soft and set to club the hive both. We never read the instructions on this cream. We bought the tin for the tap of our nails and to trim them is the lonely opposite of gross. Darling, when did we walk into suction cups and the release forms of a sleep study that jolts us huh to hear "Congratulations!" up the hall, but for who? Did you catch that? Now we're happy for them? Oh. We've heard tell of Accomplishments like get-you-some, so we staple on dead ant mustaches and, like, is that what you mean? Will someone knock on our pillow tonight to say "Howdy, you've won! It's over! These side bets, a battalion of 7s, the holy escalator, plum juice atomized, a dessert collage from checkered flags and FDR's diary: this is but a sample of your new luck." All of these I stow in my chest bones like Christmas presents that embarrass airport security and make them think "Either I gave shitty things this year or got them. Why can't I remember?" The night is a commercial for trains. Dreams on call with eyebrows wet. I'm making a lot of money counting how awake I can stay in the tyranny of sequels to self-recipes. Should I practice my headers? Did I cauterize my friend? You're rubbing the cream mask in your fit, all over the cool side. Eighty-six umbrellas open in the street, and they spell something in how they float (is it a billet-doux?) NO, THE INSTRUCTIONS SAY RUB IN GENTLY. THEY NEVER SAID MASK.
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