haunted_comedy

“Soup of miracles???” He re-reads the last of the days sentences to himself. “Okay, fuck you, you’re done for the day, soup of fucking miracles…”he says aloud, tossing aside the computer like a lap dancer with a bee stinger, reaching for his iPhone, scratching his balls, worrying about how to spend the next 18 hours until tomorrow mornings soup of fucking miracles fuck you. He smiles as a coach who can’t say nice things easily. Doesn’t want players getting cocky. Not becaUse he’s an asshole but cuz cocky chokes. Fuck you is easier to say, easier to manage, the most unalarming thing to hear, it’s the only loving thing around when you’re tired of words and just want to scratch your balls and listen to the news of the neighborhood turning Noon. Get Blown by your own body hair against the breeze and not bother to delete the bad line right away cuz it’s inferiority to the great lines is obvious and will be just as bad tomorrow . But will the good stuff remain ? This: the suspense of sleeping every night on the reefs, able to protect it against everything but waves and the women who know how to ride them +_++_+_