my name is patrick. I am sitting on a chair that could, honestly, really be a stool in disguise. I say this not to alarm you, but rather to inform you that there is a possibility that such stools may lurk in your neighborhood.
perhaps you should consider the fabric used in couches. is it really used for comfort? or rather… a disguise for stools feigning to be a couch? you shall never know, nayhence you dare try to stop them. if you darest consider it, they may, just may, strike back with lucent vigor. so be aware, but not alarmed (for these vile creatures feed upon the alert.)
now for a much more serious matter. today I found out that I am america’s next top model. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I received a notice in the mail today. I’m supposed to go speak on the morning news with hope woodside and that one chick that does the weather. if they ask me about the competition, I will simply change the subject, discussing babies and the new cheer laundry detergent. mmmm, mmmm, tasty!
sigh. here’s the honest truth: everything I just wrote was a lie. a vivaciously lucrative hoax. you see, I am not a model, nor am I a promoter for laundry detergent. truth is, I am just a person, and it’s okay because I am writing about nothing. you know that it is true, and you know that it is time for me to say… “bye bye baby balloon.”
no, I don’t know. this post is just loaded crap. I am just writing thoughts and it probably sounds like someone is standing behind me reading everything I write. wait. did that sentence even make sense? I don’t really know. lots of my sentences don’t make sense. but this post is the epitome of my nonsensical thought process. don’t judge me for my whimmy personality. judgment is for pretentious people that are rude. and god. but god’s judgment is supposed to be just, but I don’t think it makes sense since there are many, many factors god must consider (if god is real.) god sounds like a robot. calculating all of our everything and then saying “enter heaven” or “suffer in eternal damnation.”
if god were a robot, that would be strange.
robots are strange.
but what’s really strange are birds. they’re like dinosaurs of the current era. with their eggs and their hatching and their meek presence. and what about the birds that can’t fly. and those strange packets of sugar in the raw… *shudder*… so gross.
well. this post was much ado about nothing. I feel like, if I could make a crap version of words, that this post would be it. if this were ever found by a poet, or a literary analyst, though, they’d probably be like “SO MUCH SYMBOLISM HE IS LIKE THE PICASSO OF THE WORDS AND THE DAVINCI OF THE SENTENCES, OH WOE AM I WITH THE TENDER PORTRAYAL OF YOUTHFUL ABANDON.” and then they would weep because I am strange and misunderstood, and crying for people to recognize my inner-heart’s death.
grah. crap. this post is crap. you know what? I’m gonna post it. just because I am THAT confident that this doesn’t even matter.
it is tripe. TRIPE. TRITE TRIPE. TIPE. RITE. PIER. RIPE. PERT. I am going to go play boggle.