red pills found behind the sofa cushions, green pills edition (prolepsis 2)
Just woke from another of my vivid blue agave dreams (hundreds of naked Indians labor to build an enormous casino inside the hollowed-out carcass of a giant, magical buffalo, the buffet to which features nothing but kippers, wild salmon, and owl kabobs)—only to find a curious note from my hoodie.
Seems he’s been “living a lie” and has decided to run off with a pastel short sleeve button down Madras and some Perry Ellis 3/4-ankle leather boots he met at a Ross clearance sale.
Which means more Funyons for me, I guess.
For their part, a couple of the decommissioned agency beets I’ve been safehousing seem relieved he’s gone. But then, they’re so paranoid that one of them actually shot up my tea kettle a month back because he swore the whistling was “a Romanian vapor spy” calling in a willy pete strike on the veggie crisper—so, you know, I try just to keep them fixed for Smack and then avoid eye contact whenenver possible.