I'll send you some knee pads. And i'll send you some rock salt to sprinkle in between your pads and your girlie knocking knees. Something to keep you awake as it digs into your chicken skin. Yeah, i'll send you lemons too. Squeeze it in between your pads and your bare bony twinkles. It will make you weep even more as the rock digs and the juices sting. The recipe for tears is also a recipe for fish tacos.

Why the fucking pre-excuse titling your post a "stream of consciousness"? Was there something to apologize for? Do you think we needed that into in case we would think... gosh, this is not good grammar? Is this why we sent you to film schooling for? To fuckin learn how to prep your audience with labels that my mom could understand? Mom, he'res eight bucks for a ticket to this "Stream of Consciousness." Shit, mom has seen it already. Mom, here's eight bucks for a banana tree. Well spent.

I don't know where you at now buddy-boy. But one thing we respect and understand up here in twinkle-town is improvisation. Be it of the absurd, apathetic, or anarchia kind. We don't need no fuckin' title to tell us what it is we are reading. Remember where your roots reach back to, underground, it travels north and surfaces in Adrian's livingroom. Tickle tickle.

Getting past the title...

I love the paragraph you have shared with us. Its bloated, deep with bitterness, and ends with an odd question mark. Love it.

- its the E to the R to the ICKY