A Duality of Mixed Sauces

It’s Tuesday and I don’t know what to write. (Just kidding, I wrote this on Monday, just editing it now.) But I’m going to keep writing until something comes to mind, until something pops in my head with the force of a corpse hitting a fan, splattering blood and gristle everywhere, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Yes, even up there. Splatters flicked in a line, one on top of the other as the fan blade spins. A big chunk slowly dislodges, then peels off the putrefying paint before sliding to one small section of its mass, holding on like a suction cup from a severed octopus tentacle and then finally plopping to the ground with a slimy slap.


The fan looks terrible, too. Not two. Just one.


It smells terrible now. Like a garbage dumpster that can be power washed but still smell like rotten chicken flesh and putrefying produce behind a restaurant. Avocado peals and all kinds of mixed sauces. The warmer weather isn’t helping much, either. It’s a meal for a groundhog, or whatever they eat. Though, he probably won’t come out of his hole with how things are going in the world. Have you felt the news lately? It’s a jungle out there. And the vegetation smells like the dumpster the groundhog is now dining on. But leave him alone, it’s a recession and he’s just hit the jackpot. Oh he’s seen/not seen his shadow already? A duality you say?


Shhhh. Don’t say that.


Or say it.


It’s Tuesday. Feels more like a Wednesday. Wish it was Thursday. But don’t wish your life away day. Just another manic--well, at least it’s not Monday any longer.




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