Mourning Routine

Walkin' you all the way home, feelin' things out...gettin' the feel. A shrine before I kneel we peek at the glimmer of the gold. It must be Our Lady! Siftin' through some aisles I heard your voice, I can't quite make it out but it sounds an awful lot like an argumentative, ridiculous request: "I have been. HERE. threeee times already today, and threeee times already today I have asked your manager to order milk WITH-OUT GROWTH HORMONE - comprendo ingles!?! Do you even work in dairy, where's your manager. This morning, this afternoon, and a few minutes ago." Mmm, yeah. That's you honey. My dreamgirl. Contendin' about things you have no godly right to contend about, like the time you stole from a store and went back to make it look like you hadn't - baby they called you on it.

"Bitch! Wait for the next one bitch. You fucking bitch!" If you call someone that you just shoved in the chest a bitch three time in ten words, what does that make you? "Mommy!" (or Aunt Trish) "Listen honey I'm not your mommy ok? Your mommy is trying to straighten things out with whatever sleaze is most likely to be your daddy." Well now, is that an appropriate thing to tell your little friend there? I don't think it is. Just because you called some other chick a bitch three times in ten words shouldn't dictate how you act for the rest of the day. That's why Trish took a walk when the real mother came home.

So I'm walking and looking up and getting all morbid. Here's the routine: front page catastrophe, refresh refresh, "oh" details, candlelight vigil, Chinatown Facebook trinkets (applets), acronym and colloquialisms, last thought's internalization, on with life, "oh" yeah, "I was there/where," Senate commission, publication.