1. Remember that day
the sun burned out?
you decided instead of sitting in darkness
that you
could just radiate?
And you
believed that
if you
concentrated hard enough, your
7 year old heart
could light up your whole block
or at the very least
your back yard bed-sheet fort?
Remember how up until
6th grade science class
you still could have sworn
you saw a fire-fly four-square game
flicker 5 centimeters below your clavicle?
Take a snap-shot of yourself
as you realized the biological impossibility
of magic.
2. Take your image of yourself;
stretch its boarders to the corners
of the imagination that
once upon a time
led you to believe
that you would be
a marine biologist
with her own dolphin refuge in Pensacola Florida--
live shows on the hour;
that reveled in the gymnast-like qualities
of rules when rounded off;
that never squinted in
the face of strangers, but opened eyes
wide as if to say,
"I've only got one, but we can share."
Introduce her to the stranger with
dandelions painted on her corneas
to charm the tourists
and keep them from realizing she's a tourist too;
who wanders underground railroad hallways
hidden behind billboard smiles asking
"are we there yet?"
who is only in water up to her elbows in
dish-filled sinks;
Show her your callused hands
that touch unfamiliar brick walls
refusing to surrender their secrets into your palms;
Show her
half-moon, fingernail-inflicted stigmatas
at the eye of white knuckle storms
that serve
less as sea-life sanctuaries and
more like late-night anecdotes for
infomercial insomniacs and craigslisted trysts.
3. Tell her it's temporary.
That tables will turn to turn tables in time
to play back that 7 year old shine
in her eyes from the glare of
holding the whole world
inside her pupils--Now apologize;
for ever possessing
a back-up plan that backed her
so far into corners her
butterfly garden belly forgot
the power of it's collective wingspan.
Superimpose your warped memory
onto grid-lines
like streets
like grid-lines guiding
4 a.m., not-enough-money-walks home,
and take comfort,
because Tonight;
I've gathered a whole playground full of fire-flys.
We've split into teams and
you're on mine.
We may not have the sun
but we have enough
light to see four contiguous squares
drawn in
side walk chalk on black top.
4. If you decide to join us you can play winner.
We will be here all night.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Thursday, July 31, 2008
I don't know what this is...
But it just happened so I am going to keep it around and see if it goes anywhere.
_________________
He didn't smell bad. Which isn't to say he smelled good either. Rather the olfactory messages he transmitted were distinct. Like a note passed before gym class with the unmistakable penmanship of a boy you had never really noticed.
Until now. The finger-snap "now" when everything changes. That summer we were indistinguishable-- as if we were gestating in the same womb. He fell somewhere in between the movie-ticket stubs and laser-tag, or was it roller-blading? South of swimming pools but north of tree climbing; and every where you went that summer you were sweating in a sweltering time-capsule of simultaneous "it will always be this way" and "it will never be this way again". It was the last summer any of us were still kids. And it is the story of how I came to hate the smell of pepper.
_________________
He didn't smell bad. Which isn't to say he smelled good either. Rather the olfactory messages he transmitted were distinct. Like a note passed before gym class with the unmistakable penmanship of a boy you had never really noticed.
Until now. The finger-snap "now" when everything changes. That summer we were indistinguishable-- as if we were gestating in the same womb. He fell somewhere in between the movie-ticket stubs and laser-tag, or was it roller-blading? South of swimming pools but north of tree climbing; and every where you went that summer you were sweating in a sweltering time-capsule of simultaneous "it will always be this way" and "it will never be this way again". It was the last summer any of us were still kids. And it is the story of how I came to hate the smell of pepper.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
With Love, Codependant
I'm sorry I cannot "help" you
Cannot affix butterfly wings to the blades in your shoulders
that vibrate at frequencies
of chartreuse, maroon and mahogany
To sail you off the edge of the earth, over outer space
so you can shoot the shit with the stars
shrink yourself to match a matchbook
grow yourself to challenge dog-woods to dodge ball
An' all before breakfast, too.
Butterfly wings that make glass stained shades of saints jealous
so that you would always feel beautiful and know that you
are Divinity's descendant.
Turbo-boost wings so that you could out soar the dragons that you
can't seem to keep slain. Big,
seductive, easy-as-you please wings
quicker and more powerful then all the other wings given to you by those whose pockets grow fat to the tune of your gradual, self-inflicted death march--
passed off as bubblegum pop
Wings that carry you beyond the high
beyond your head and the lies that live there
past the meanings of words that little boys shouldn't have to say
to safely and soundly keep the bad men at bay, the zealots from extremes
a light in every dark place and all the in-betweens-
But I can't give you these butterfly wings.
they too will transform
into one more distraction from veracity.
And I can't be
another one of those
broken-promise pushers
pedaling my wares where one finds shortcut seekers.
If you wanna swim with the birds
and fly with the fishes
Baby, I'm sorry to tell you
the only way out
is through.
So here's what you do:
Find the the most scrupulous sword.
Drape yourself in iron-willed armor,
and bless your arrows so that they always hit their mark.
I will hold your hand
When even with all of these things
you still feel defeated
Assemble an infantry to storm the castle
of The Queen of Hearts that still chases you in your sleep-
Steal back your crown
replace it on your head to stop the aching.
Find rocks for slingshot
to shoot the voices hiding in
the mountains in your mind
so that they will finally stop talking
And you can start thinking.
I will rejoice with you
When all of these things are through
and sunlight seeps past your bedroom window
and onto your waking eyelids...
By then
it will have all seem to have just been a bad dream.
So, what do you say we skip the wings?
Cannot affix butterfly wings to the blades in your shoulders
that vibrate at frequencies
of chartreuse, maroon and mahogany
To sail you off the edge of the earth, over outer space
so you can shoot the shit with the stars
shrink yourself to match a matchbook
grow yourself to challenge dog-woods to dodge ball
An' all before breakfast, too.
Butterfly wings that make glass stained shades of saints jealous
so that you would always feel beautiful and know that you
are Divinity's descendant.
Turbo-boost wings so that you could out soar the dragons that you
can't seem to keep slain. Big,
seductive, easy-as-you please wings
quicker and more powerful then all the other wings given to you by those whose pockets grow fat to the tune of your gradual, self-inflicted death march--
passed off as bubblegum pop
Wings that carry you beyond the high
beyond your head and the lies that live there
past the meanings of words that little boys shouldn't have to say
to safely and soundly keep the bad men at bay, the zealots from extremes
a light in every dark place and all the in-betweens-
But I can't give you these butterfly wings.
they too will transform
into one more distraction from veracity.
And I can't be
another one of those
broken-promise pushers
pedaling my wares where one finds shortcut seekers.
If you wanna swim with the birds
and fly with the fishes
Baby, I'm sorry to tell you
the only way out
is through.
So here's what you do:
Find the the most scrupulous sword.
Drape yourself in iron-willed armor,
and bless your arrows so that they always hit their mark.
I will hold your hand
When even with all of these things
you still feel defeated
Assemble an infantry to storm the castle
of The Queen of Hearts that still chases you in your sleep-
Steal back your crown
replace it on your head to stop the aching.
Find rocks for slingshot
to shoot the voices hiding in
the mountains in your mind
so that they will finally stop talking
And you can start thinking.
I will rejoice with you
When all of these things are through
and sunlight seeps past your bedroom window
and onto your waking eyelids...
By then
it will have all seem to have just been a bad dream.
So, what do you say we skip the wings?
Friday, January 25, 2008
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
The Good news is:
My demands on stars, eyelashes and wishbones
Have been put to better use
Causes that actually stand a chance
Like, childhood prank wars revisited in adulthood
Or a speed boat made of ice cream
See, I awoke the other morning to find
That somehow in my sleep
I had opened the door to your cage
And you had flown out my bedroom window
Into the night
And onto
Whomever.
And I have never slept better.
Your name can now be found
Embedded in a grocery list of tasks
And call-backs
And pencil-ins
Instead of a flashing neon sign
On the tip of my tong
Or just in front of my always-shut eye-lids
Replacing rest
With restlessness
Robbing me of deep breaths…
And it can't be safe to have that much neon that close to your face for so long
Oh! And I got my truth back
I thought she had become so tired
Of living in the shadow
Of your presence
That she had evaporated into the clouds
To be carried off and dropped as rain
In Timbuktu or Kalamazoo
Or some other poetically over used place
Where she could get sunlight on her face
And earth between her toes
But I was wrong;
She was still waiting in the corner where I left her
Covered in dust but still beautiful.
And a little taller.
The Bad news is:
When we cared,
Communication was strained
We wringed dribblings of conversations
From ether-soaked rags
Shaped like lungs,
Threw curve-ball pleasantries
Around the lumps in our throats.
Words were pushed out of mouths
Like creeks from floorboards
Found in houses that sag with the weight
Of knowing better-
Each one loaded with
A technicolor epic
Of lemonade and train tracks and
Gentle. Men.
And sunsets slower than gimpy snails.
And we couldn’t share any of it.
The irreconcilable differences
In how we speak
Seeped into the groundwater
That nourished “us”.
Our roots desperately sucked every toxic particle
Until they drew their last drop.
Leaves began to turn
And fall as flies
Finding the ground
Like they were finally coming home.
Bare branches scratched the sky
As if the sun rays were escape routes
And as the sun set on this scene
It dawned on me:
You never fail to disappoint me.
The thought exploded my body into skyward bound microscopic pieces
Each one absorbed by a cloud
This time of year,
The weather
Is perfect
In Kalamazoo.
My demands on stars, eyelashes and wishbones
Have been put to better use
Causes that actually stand a chance
Like, childhood prank wars revisited in adulthood
Or a speed boat made of ice cream
See, I awoke the other morning to find
That somehow in my sleep
I had opened the door to your cage
And you had flown out my bedroom window
Into the night
And onto
Whomever.
And I have never slept better.
Your name can now be found
Embedded in a grocery list of tasks
And call-backs
And pencil-ins
Instead of a flashing neon sign
On the tip of my tong
Or just in front of my always-shut eye-lids
Replacing rest
With restlessness
Robbing me of deep breaths…
And it can't be safe to have that much neon that close to your face for so long
Oh! And I got my truth back
I thought she had become so tired
Of living in the shadow
Of your presence
That she had evaporated into the clouds
To be carried off and dropped as rain
In Timbuktu or Kalamazoo
Or some other poetically over used place
Where she could get sunlight on her face
And earth between her toes
But I was wrong;
She was still waiting in the corner where I left her
Covered in dust but still beautiful.
And a little taller.
The Bad news is:
When we cared,
Communication was strained
We wringed dribblings of conversations
From ether-soaked rags
Shaped like lungs,
Threw curve-ball pleasantries
Around the lumps in our throats.
Words were pushed out of mouths
Like creeks from floorboards
Found in houses that sag with the weight
Of knowing better-
Each one loaded with
A technicolor epic
Of lemonade and train tracks and
Gentle. Men.
And sunsets slower than gimpy snails.
And we couldn’t share any of it.
The irreconcilable differences
In how we speak
Seeped into the groundwater
That nourished “us”.
Our roots desperately sucked every toxic particle
Until they drew their last drop.
Leaves began to turn
And fall as flies
Finding the ground
Like they were finally coming home.
Bare branches scratched the sky
As if the sun rays were escape routes
And as the sun set on this scene
It dawned on me:
You never fail to disappoint me.
The thought exploded my body into skyward bound microscopic pieces
Each one absorbed by a cloud
This time of year,
The weather
Is perfect
In Kalamazoo.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Retaliation
It is as if you could see
The bubbles of air rise up above his head
Precisely where bubbles of thought should be.
Perfectly circular entrapments of nothing more than oxygen and carbon dioxide
Where assessments and evaluations of the situation should reside
And sound travels sharp in air, but he is surrounded
By a watery world of his own willing
Where warnings of the shiny, sparkly fishing lures
Cleverly concealing a catagory 3 catastrophe
And cautionary tales of just how deep the waters beyond the shelf can be
Become distorted and fuddled and finally fall on deaf ears.
Repeated attempts to convince and remind him
That this ocean is full of dangers and he is only an itty bitty little fish
Are lost on him.
No, he fancies himself…Moby Dick
Monstrous and indestructible because he is so HARDCORE!
Nothing can effect the 2 ton beast with a dick bigger than most cars,
Because he glides into battle with half a tank of Jack
And an iron will convinced his falsehoods are factual
He drinks…well…like a fish
Only able to function with a guitar in one hand and
A bottle of whiskey in the other
Pedaling his played-out and dissonant melodies to anyone within earshot
Sleighing the ghosts of girls who just gave up
Backs broken from the weight of misplaced responsibilities
Receiving blows from hands thought to be possessed
Of a grown man
Wielded by a little boy in sheep’s clothing
No wait, sorry—fishes clothing.
Worn-out welcomes become the accepted form of currency
In exchanges that are somehow fishy and far from fair
Despite receiving more than he is owed, he can still be found flopping on the shore
Whining and begging and badgering for more
More time, more words, more of everything you never wanted to give him in the first place.
Solicitations turn to manipulations.
Marionette forms with our faces dangle from his fins
But down here, desperation smells of blood
And sharks are yet another danger of this here ocean
It's the saddest shot at playing hard to get
He’d give his first born to gain the upper hand
Swimming against the current
No matter how hard you try
Will never turn the tide.
Baby, I told you that job is for the moon alone
And I reiterate, you are only an itty bitty little fish
But never mind me
Keep on swimming in circles
You can’t hear me anyway.
The bubbles of air rise up above his head
Precisely where bubbles of thought should be.
Perfectly circular entrapments of nothing more than oxygen and carbon dioxide
Where assessments and evaluations of the situation should reside
And sound travels sharp in air, but he is surrounded
By a watery world of his own willing
Where warnings of the shiny, sparkly fishing lures
Cleverly concealing a catagory 3 catastrophe
And cautionary tales of just how deep the waters beyond the shelf can be
Become distorted and fuddled and finally fall on deaf ears.
Repeated attempts to convince and remind him
That this ocean is full of dangers and he is only an itty bitty little fish
Are lost on him.
No, he fancies himself…Moby Dick
Monstrous and indestructible because he is so HARDCORE!
Nothing can effect the 2 ton beast with a dick bigger than most cars,
Because he glides into battle with half a tank of Jack
And an iron will convinced his falsehoods are factual
He drinks…well…like a fish
Only able to function with a guitar in one hand and
A bottle of whiskey in the other
Pedaling his played-out and dissonant melodies to anyone within earshot
Sleighing the ghosts of girls who just gave up
Backs broken from the weight of misplaced responsibilities
Receiving blows from hands thought to be possessed
Of a grown man
Wielded by a little boy in sheep’s clothing
No wait, sorry—fishes clothing.
Worn-out welcomes become the accepted form of currency
In exchanges that are somehow fishy and far from fair
Despite receiving more than he is owed, he can still be found flopping on the shore
Whining and begging and badgering for more
More time, more words, more of everything you never wanted to give him in the first place.
Solicitations turn to manipulations.
Marionette forms with our faces dangle from his fins
But down here, desperation smells of blood
And sharks are yet another danger of this here ocean
It's the saddest shot at playing hard to get
He’d give his first born to gain the upper hand
Swimming against the current
No matter how hard you try
Will never turn the tide.
Baby, I told you that job is for the moon alone
And I reiterate, you are only an itty bitty little fish
But never mind me
Keep on swimming in circles
You can’t hear me anyway.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
You've Got Me
This is the poem I swore I would never allow you to inspire.
The thoughts that slowly seep in when living out my waking dream
I’ve been too afraid to speak because then they might have even more power.
The things that had you asked me yesterday
I would have undoubtedly denied
Because you
Are the man
Of my nightmares
The cracks in the never-ending sidewalk of my love life that I am forever trying to sidestep
As I try to keep my mama’s back unbroken.
And you and your kind from swallowing me whole.
As you always do.
This is the poem that forces my hand instead of the other way around
This is all my cards on the table
This is me after you have made me lose control.
You’ve got my mind hijacked for hours on end
Forcing it into lascivious landscapes of libidinous reverie
Ignoring the fact that I should have never even let you in the car in the first place
You’ve got me knowing exactly where you are in the room at all times
As if I am some kind of self-contained one-woman tracking device .
You’ve got me choosin’ outfits and underwear based on what I think you might like
You’ve got me writin’ poetry about your sorry ass
I mean, damn, baby; you’ve got me.
You’ve got me twisted and knotted up in kama sutra ideas
Of what we could do to each other
You’ve got me taking every other member of my spank bank out of rotation
You’ve got me mentally book marking a thousand and one things
I want to tell you about on any given day but when you’re around
I’m speechless and staring at my shoes
Like they might tell me my next (bold move) (willing them to feed me my next line)
You’ve got me thinking about what it might be like to wake up next to you
You’ve got me checkin’ my phone every 2 minutes to see if you’ve called or texted or paged
You’ve got me making excuse as to why you haven’t
You’ve got me wishin’ on eyelashes that the same things are happening to you.
Even though by best mind knows they’re not.
Despite all my tryin’, baby, you’ve got me.
I want to free myself
But the dysfunction in me looks at the dysfunction in you
And sees its perfectly inverted mirror reflection
A monstrously deformed and distorted lock-and-key
And every time we barely touch as we pass and pretend not to notice
Fate’s hands start shaking like “I just need one more drink”
Because she knows I’ve been tryin to wash your taste out of my mouth
The way one trys to wash out the taste of a hot pepper when they bit off more than they can chew -
By frantically grabbing anything or one in reach to try to stop the burning
And not only is it not working
But I’m kinda havin an “I told you no wire hangers!” moment with this
So she knows that I am a bullet in the barrel of a gun held by a high-school social outcast
Ready to fire
See I might just explode at any second.
But instead we sit here
Talkin’ shit like we’re letting our words duke it out over who could care less
Because that’s how much we don’t care
All the while exhaling unspoken and half-baked promises
Into blood shot eyes.
Hoping you’ll pass when I test you:
“Yeah, she was really cute. You should give her a call.”
The thoughts that slowly seep in when living out my waking dream
I’ve been too afraid to speak because then they might have even more power.
The things that had you asked me yesterday
I would have undoubtedly denied
Because you
Are the man
Of my nightmares
The cracks in the never-ending sidewalk of my love life that I am forever trying to sidestep
As I try to keep my mama’s back unbroken.
And you and your kind from swallowing me whole.
As you always do.
This is the poem that forces my hand instead of the other way around
This is all my cards on the table
This is me after you have made me lose control.
You’ve got my mind hijacked for hours on end
Forcing it into lascivious landscapes of libidinous reverie
Ignoring the fact that I should have never even let you in the car in the first place
You’ve got me knowing exactly where you are in the room at all times
As if I am some kind of self-contained one-woman tracking device .
You’ve got me choosin’ outfits and underwear based on what I think you might like
You’ve got me writin’ poetry about your sorry ass
I mean, damn, baby; you’ve got me.
You’ve got me twisted and knotted up in kama sutra ideas
Of what we could do to each other
You’ve got me taking every other member of my spank bank out of rotation
You’ve got me mentally book marking a thousand and one things
I want to tell you about on any given day but when you’re around
I’m speechless and staring at my shoes
Like they might tell me my next (bold move) (willing them to feed me my next line)
You’ve got me thinking about what it might be like to wake up next to you
You’ve got me checkin’ my phone every 2 minutes to see if you’ve called or texted or paged
You’ve got me making excuse as to why you haven’t
You’ve got me wishin’ on eyelashes that the same things are happening to you.
Even though by best mind knows they’re not.
Despite all my tryin’, baby, you’ve got me.
I want to free myself
But the dysfunction in me looks at the dysfunction in you
And sees its perfectly inverted mirror reflection
A monstrously deformed and distorted lock-and-key
And every time we barely touch as we pass and pretend not to notice
Fate’s hands start shaking like “I just need one more drink”
Because she knows I’ve been tryin to wash your taste out of my mouth
The way one trys to wash out the taste of a hot pepper when they bit off more than they can chew -
By frantically grabbing anything or one in reach to try to stop the burning
And not only is it not working
But I’m kinda havin an “I told you no wire hangers!” moment with this
So she knows that I am a bullet in the barrel of a gun held by a high-school social outcast
Ready to fire
See I might just explode at any second.
But instead we sit here
Talkin’ shit like we’re letting our words duke it out over who could care less
Because that’s how much we don’t care
All the while exhaling unspoken and half-baked promises
Into blood shot eyes.
Hoping you’ll pass when I test you:
“Yeah, she was really cute. You should give her a call.”
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Procrasterbation
There are four websites I visit every day of the work-week:
Nataliedee.com
Toothpastefordinner.com
Marriedtothesea.com
And Overheardinnewyork.com
Other websites I visit on a work-daily basis include but are not limited to:
Explodingdog
Austinslam
The LiveJournals of my friends
The Live Journals of my past lovers
Hisspace, herspace myspace and yourspace
I stare out the window
Pretend to organize my desk
Go across the street for some coffee
(and I fuckin hate coffee)
I text my sister
I check my email
A lot.
I write poetry
I practice poetry
All in the name of not doing the shit that I am supposed to be doing
At work.
The art of procrastination has been perfected through the ages
Thanks to countless jobs in cubical cages
For menial tasks compensating negligible wages
So there is something so rewarding about watching the numma numma yay kid
For the gazillionth time without your boss ever suspecting
Cookies stolen from the cookie jar and devoured before mom makes it from the garage
To the kitchen are always sweeter for the same reason that every thing is funnier in church;
Because you aren’t supposed to laugh in church.
Which is why procrastinating at work is so satisfying!
But not for me.
Because my boss procrastinates at work too
I mean he calls us into his office at least 3 times a month to show us some
Crazy-awesome beatboxer or a logic-defying skateboarding dog
So there is no need for me to sneak around about looking at the same stuff on my own.
Thus, for me, it loses all sense of fulfillment I might gain from simply wasting time at work
I have to do it in my personal life as well.
Laundry, dishes, going to the grocery store, and any other chore I might encounter are all subject to my favorite form of distraction:
Procrasterbatiuon
You know
The art of procrastination through self love.
I mean, as long as we’re wastin’ time, might as well enjoy it, right?
Although it may look like distraction on the surface,
Procrasterbation is actually quite productive indeed!
It jolts the heart-rate much like sprinting
It relives stress and lowers cortical levels which can lead to weight problems
It helps boost the immune system
It raises dopamine levels in the brain causing feelings of happiness and contentment
And if a person can’t rely on him or herself for feelings of happiness and contentment
Who else can they rely on?
One could argue, even, that everything else is actually tearing us away from what is really important!
And if everyone could be healthy happy and content, then there would be no need for
Fighting, or aggressive driving, or war or late--night infomercials or televangelists
The world would be a much more safe and enjoyable place to live!
So go on, I beseech you to procrasterbate as much as possible.
In fact, you should move it to the top of your to-do list.
Nataliedee.com
Toothpastefordinner.com
Marriedtothesea.com
And Overheardinnewyork.com
Other websites I visit on a work-daily basis include but are not limited to:
Explodingdog
Austinslam
The LiveJournals of my friends
The Live Journals of my past lovers
Hisspace, herspace myspace and yourspace
I stare out the window
Pretend to organize my desk
Go across the street for some coffee
(and I fuckin hate coffee)
I text my sister
I check my email
A lot.
I write poetry
I practice poetry
All in the name of not doing the shit that I am supposed to be doing
At work.
The art of procrastination has been perfected through the ages
Thanks to countless jobs in cubical cages
For menial tasks compensating negligible wages
So there is something so rewarding about watching the numma numma yay kid
For the gazillionth time without your boss ever suspecting
Cookies stolen from the cookie jar and devoured before mom makes it from the garage
To the kitchen are always sweeter for the same reason that every thing is funnier in church;
Because you aren’t supposed to laugh in church.
Which is why procrastinating at work is so satisfying!
But not for me.
Because my boss procrastinates at work too
I mean he calls us into his office at least 3 times a month to show us some
Crazy-awesome beatboxer or a logic-defying skateboarding dog
So there is no need for me to sneak around about looking at the same stuff on my own.
Thus, for me, it loses all sense of fulfillment I might gain from simply wasting time at work
I have to do it in my personal life as well.
Laundry, dishes, going to the grocery store, and any other chore I might encounter are all subject to my favorite form of distraction:
Procrasterbatiuon
You know
The art of procrastination through self love.
I mean, as long as we’re wastin’ time, might as well enjoy it, right?
Although it may look like distraction on the surface,
Procrasterbation is actually quite productive indeed!
It jolts the heart-rate much like sprinting
It relives stress and lowers cortical levels which can lead to weight problems
It helps boost the immune system
It raises dopamine levels in the brain causing feelings of happiness and contentment
And if a person can’t rely on him or herself for feelings of happiness and contentment
Who else can they rely on?
One could argue, even, that everything else is actually tearing us away from what is really important!
And if everyone could be healthy happy and content, then there would be no need for
Fighting, or aggressive driving, or war or late--night infomercials or televangelists
The world would be a much more safe and enjoyable place to live!
So go on, I beseech you to procrasterbate as much as possible.
In fact, you should move it to the top of your to-do list.
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