Week-end in Fécamp, France. I'm French

I drove the Skyhawk Mountain road today. I hydroplaned on pollen and oak leaves into a parking lot carved out of a Duplo update of the old Lego stripmall. On time!

The job interview for the barista position at the Filipino boba tea and free trade coffeehouse to be went well. While buying drugs, another customer maybe twenty pounds my junior with dreadlocks composing the nemes to his fitted trucker hat double crown showed up, and he talked really fast without pausing between ideas or sentences. He wore a Crystal Castles shirt, checked van slip ons, tattered jean shorts, and really wanted me to like him, to the effect of telling me my shirt was a name I didn't recognize.

I felt smarter than other people. That said, earlier I ate a once frozen New Zealand leg of lamb for dinner, tummy bummers.

Selfish always seemed as appropriate next to me as it was next to the word shellfish. I'm hot when I don't take off my coat. The wind was picking up as I was walking to my car, remembering my biggest fear is to be cold. It's just dreadful. I also hate whenever my body is an instrument of unpleasant realities. All encompassing bummers.

Jumping dubplate masters serenade down from Minarets. The Mayans killed themselves through massive deforestation hundreds of years ago. Apparently there was A disconnect; their thinkers were in tune with the riddim of the earth enough to make a precise calendar, not enough to understand their inability to transcend their environment. There is no metaphor in their writing, just tree stumps and lime powder.