memories of bob

all lit up and no place to go

It’s only human doncha know?

Dear reader, it’s only human for others to drip their turds of existence on their interpretations of our experiences.

This is perhap why I find humans both so damn fascinating and so fucking tiresome.

Take for example a story I’ve often related about my Dad’s dad - Bob - you know, the taxi stand poker loser.

I have few remaining memories of Bob. But there’s one that I can picture still as I type this. He’s got smokes going - cigarettes. There are five in his mouth, two in each nostril and one sticking out of each ear.

He managed to puff them all at once - even his ears!

I can’t remember where, nor whom - hell it may have been one of you dear readers who referred to this as a traumatic memory.

Though, given how I’ve purged my readership of woke flakes, it likely wasn’t one of you, more than likely it was one of the rancid control freak turds I encountered in therapy school.

Traumatic memory?

I have a message to anyone who considers this to be a traumatic memory:

Go …