Between the floorboards and in your hearts, He sits on a throat on a throne on a boat. Dear Mr. Supercomputer you sit on our heads, on our hands, on our plans, to take over the world and over the motion of these occupiers and ocean weary sky divers. Certification is the born baby of a sovereign nation, the hallucination of mixed emotions on a plane to the escape of our bottom patients, our parents, our disguised muses of significant wasting and the wastes of a theory gone wrong. This theory was preached in our ears, I was bored of it by the time I was five but believed it until I was twenty years old.

Join on me on a crusade to remove the “x” from xmas like it’s the only thing that matters. Like it’s the purpose of my childhood and a reason to stand up and fight, like it’s a reason to get fucking angry. Never mind the starving children or the bomb baby or the way our hands got bothered from the poor baby and the thirsty mother or the thirsty child from their thirsty mother while I’ll have another drink, non-alcoholic of course. Join me on a crusade against the things that do not matter but do matter but really do not matter, I have great ways to waste your time; how about twenty years?