Why batter your mind or fry your eyes or soak your head or blanch your face or swallow your tongue why blow your nose or simmer your soul why spread your self why shave your nails or why plump your lips why chop your hair why infuse it all why not just dress and pull apart why not get stuffed.
Oh oh Oh oh Oh. We are gonna brunch. We are gonna hot meat and yolk fat on crust with booze. We are gonna syrup and booze and butter and booze and half-awake while we're at it. Drink the sleep out of our luxurious eyes, boy. Sop up hot sauce with vodka and cash. What a party what a party. My BFFs!
The button down and jacket you own in case somebody dies (the tie, too) don't fit your neck. Your fat head on vertical stripes or checks or solids and then those church pants with the stain. Your purple shirt is you. The rest, strangers. All this to go about your business. This is how you go to work.
Bran scum, lemon poppy beard dust and sweet cheese-ooze glaze the paper cup you call home. Brown froth stains the sides. It makes your teeth look like shit. It makes your breath smell like shit. It makes your shit smell like something else entirely. And now look at you. You're sweating.