some guy just rang the door bell

which cold bacon did not answer. it's been a long weekend. and especially a long night. it was like he was young again, except he wasn't. and so there is much headache, and confusion and probably lead too, but in places i don't know about, so maybe it doesn't really matter anyway. and there is fear, great fear over the state of things, especially the things cold bacon has to do today, or at least, this week, maybe, someday. surely by winter. anyway it's all bad. and it's not going away and it's not getting better and fuck if cold bacon is going to answer the god damn door this morning. no, really.

there are those times

when cold bacon does not receive the proper amount of emails in any given few minutes. it is during those times that cold bacon sometimes takes his sweet leave from the email place, and goes to another place where he lies down on a large white pillow. after a period of about two hours, he arises, and goes to the bathroom, as fate would and does seem to every time now, have it. then, at this point, he is ready. a small angel begins playing clarinet in the key of c minor. and his return is afoot. he enters the room. more clarinets. he walks over to the email place. he plops down. in the big beige chair. and behold, as if someone had magically sent them, emails, dozens upon dozens of emails, waiting. just waiting. each and every one of them delightful. sent and received quite naturally. and not because of threats issued. or warnings. or any manner of tricks used in the establishment of fear and anxiety. and subsequent action. we are all on the white pillow now. we shall all soon forget everything. today is all of our birthday.

oh my god that's not what i meant

you people are terrible. my god. he would never do that. speak of people in terms of this flavor or that flavor. go through phases where one flavor seemed better than another, and form opinions, and generate small semi-interesting anecdotes, which could then be told, to whomever or whatever was on the other end, at some later time when everything had, well, blown over, so-to-say, generationally. and such histories would now be simply called things like honest or refreshing and not lascivious or disturbed or creepy or crawly or two-fingered pete and his toe thing, and stuff like that. no. he would never do that. when cold bacon says he had too much of that brown sugar, he means he had too much of that brown sugar. and that is ALL he means.

cold bacon had way too much of that brown sugar

last nite. yeah i think you know what i mean.

the new arrangement

the other day cold bacon looked down at the usual place for the box that is for receiving mail. instead of the box, what he saw was a large orange pumpkin. the box for the mail was now behind the pumpkin. it is with no particular feeling either way on the matter that i report all of this to you, but as this is what happened, i thought it best to simply give you the facts and let you have your own reaction, whatever it may be. let me recap. there is a large pumpkin next to the brown, wooden door, or i should say in between the two brown wooden doors, each belonging to one set of tenants, or tenant, as is the case for cold bacon because there is only one of him and several of them. all of this is happening on the old red porch. once again, it is behind the pumpkin where one would find a small wooden box, which may or may not have anything in it; i don't really care, as it would more likely be cold bacon's mail and not mine anyway. surely i have mentioned cold bacon's neighbors are in possession of a small daughter who is at least five and probably six, not that i much care as this is the daughter of cold bacon's neighbors and not my own neighbor's daughter, about whose age i care deeply. one more time, just to be clear. large pumpkin. small wooden box. daughter. recent hurricaine. much debris.