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Maybe it was the location

Tripped out on March 21, 2021.

“Goodbye, morning coffee! Goodbye, morning coffee! Goodbye, morning coffee! Flushed right down the drain!” I whizzed merrily as I sang my way through my morning ablutions.

My smoilish toiling upon this here wobsite would soon recommence, but first, I had a meal to consume. And indeed, consummately did I eat my meal: My meal of muttloaf and mushed potatoes. Afterward I eructated mellifluously.

The mushed potatoes had tried to choke me to death, but I bested them—with a large spoon in one hand and a threatening gravy pourer in the other. I contemplated taking the flobcumbers out of my crisper and mushing them up next, but I was not in the mood for more vegetative assassination attempts in a single day, so I left them encumbering my crisper for another day. I’m smart that way sometimes.

The muttloaf didn’t even bark, not even once, after it learned of my determination to nosh heartily upon it. It resigned itself to its fate—its fate of being noshed upon. And nosh upon it I did. The leprechauns watched helplessly as I shamelessly inserted a completely irrelevant sentence just to connect this bit of bloggery to St. Patrick’s Day.

Last week I had completely forgotten that it was π Day, a mistake I would not make about this particular holiday. As I noshed, I mourned how I had forgotten my irrational obsession with this irrational little number. As an act of penance, I planned to bake a flobcumber pie today, π-shaped in honor of π Day, and dyed fluorescent green in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. It didn’t have to make any sense to anyone else: It made a plethora of sense to me.

Polydipsia and dipsomania would go hand-in-hand shortly thereafter, followed by polyuria and stumbling down my stairs on my head only to wonder how I woke up in a pile of garbage cans and old shillelaghs.

Amidst such ruminations, I finished the tail end of my muttloaf. Again I eructated sonorously. The mushed potatoes and muttloaf were down. Nothing however would keep me down this day: Not global warming, not global smarming (and we all know there’s plenty of that out there!), not even my crotchless underwear or Hudson Leick’s feet would keep me down this day.

My favorite public alley in the city of Boston, Massachusetts is certainly Public Alley 429. Located just north of Commonwealth Avenue on the east side of Massachusetts Ave. (as one approaches the Harvard Bridge and MIT beyond, the birthplace of the now-rampant A.I. that actually writes most of these blog entries), this public alley has just the right combination of width, depth, and slope to make it the perfect spot for dumpster racing. Launch a dumpster the wrong way down this alley (the alley is well-signed with “one way” and “do not enter” signs from the Massachusetts Ave. entrance), and that baby will be careening fast enough to flatten a dorded hippopotamus by the time it reaches the other end!

“Sleep paralysis,” utterly terrified, see old hag. Screeches, hear her walking stick. Terrifying stuff I don’t wanna remember. Witch was trying to feed off my fear energy. Didn’t know anything about that until later in life. See her pic in my early days on this, followed by the explanation of this occurrence, what it’s called and what people experience. All body hair stood up.

Deep web red room.

Apotheosis. Difficult to explain. Met soul mate, travelled consciously through time when it stopped, saw my future, experienced Universe redoing itself with God explaining important stuff to me all the way to the “now.” Mandela effect arose after that.

Saw UFO. Not really scary, more like an adrenaline pump.

Getting possessed once on weed. Yeah, weed. Felt old Latin spirit enter me, saw reality as 2-D, started speaking Latin, had lots of knowledge, scared shitless for not been able to control myself and thoughts. Tried to control it for the lulz, yelled to my friends to Ask me something! so at the end if I survived, the wisdom plus knowledge would not go to waste. If you think “You were just tripping out, man”—no, I tried countless and many strains. Maybe it was the location.

Again I emitted a canorous eructation.

Maybe it was the location.