"Fat, Angry People"

"Are you sure youre hungry?" I asked the question with conviction; convicted of my space, form, shape, breath, love. I asked knowing where I was.
"Yes, I need to eat something," came the response from across the table.
Tourist trap steak house full of direct hits to the guts and tits and more burger than you could shake an angry, Yankee glance at. Men at the heads of tables and heads all around gap jawwed and open, making the air frequency go "yeeeeehhhhhhuuuuuuueeeeeehahahahahuuuuhhhheeeeehhhhuuu"/the noise our species creates. You know its bad when I tell my mom that Im gonna have a hard time holding it together and her response is, "Well, you better, these are some fat, angry people." I've never seen my mom, whose a fantastic water colorist, as a Ralph Steadman, but at that moment her humor shone through and actively creeped me out. She was right, if I lost it 50 heros would take me out, beat me to within an inch of my life is good and leave me on the filthy rubber mats out by the dumpsters.

God, beach trips are amazing.

A day later, today, it clicked for my mom and she laughed when she realized i was giving her the opportunity to walk away and not eat the hush pups and baked p's. It was all shit. T total crapola trucked in by a trucker and cooked by a cook. Served by a server and eaten by... eaters?

What the hell are we kidding ourselves for? These titles mean shit. Shit except a ribbon and a concept, more judgement of who you are. What could you possibly mean?

I stood on my head and watched the cloudscape be sea and sea be sky, my oh my how funny it is and was to see you and him drip from below but above this and fall out in form for a moment your form, slip a laugh through your lips slip a ship through the storm slip a thorn in the skin slip again and again.