34th Post, Act Five

"There is no grace in act five
Only the nerves, insect-like twitches
Involuntary bowel movements, and confusion
a snail in salt doesn't fall asleep
with a half-smile
like Grandma from the after-school special
it twists and contorts
it jerks and writhes for some time
like a living severed limb on fire"
-Act Five, Why?

And that's how it ends, Donald. I'm not going to let this blog just peter out, with no official ending. I'm going to confidently shout it while I sit on a cannon firing fireworks into the dark, dark skies of the internet. In my hand imagine a bottle of jack with a toothbrush in it. Yes, I'm referencing Kesha. I have to fucking reference her, alright? Kids today aren't going to sit down and read anything that holds the past in high regard.

I wanted these blogs to be something special. A fusion, perhaps, of yesterday's wit and today's pure energy. But you can't have both worlds. You'll create a language no one understands. Too fresh for wizened dry eyes, too analog for a digital crowd. What the fuck does it even mean?

I'm killing this blog, Donavon.
Just watch me do it.