It's OK, It's All Right, Nothing's Wrong

I'm sitting here, up since six 6:20 am, stoned, depressed but trying to distract myself by thinking about porn star tattoos and how much they resemble the more typical tattoo work that people get done. (My guess is not much, but then I don't hang out and have sex with too many naked people. Especially dudes.)

I check my e-mail, and I get an email from my mom:

Hope you are doing okay

Remy bit a chow when the chow ran out and wanted to attack Max ; Remy bit the chow and the chow ran away

I think my mom is some sort of poetry idiot savant. There is little in life that is less appealing to me than poetry, but the thousand-monkeys my mom has typing away in her head can produce some amazing results.

Sobriety is good for her.