Just In The Prick Of Time

In a thrilling induction into the near future a letter was opened today (Saturday) reading I, we, have 60 days to vacate the premises as the house is being sold. Likely to someone with a bulldozer or wrecking ball.

I'd rather four months more in this shaky shitheap, but two it is, apparently. The panic inducing letter is a cousin of other correspondence: debt collectors, medical results, confirmation of unnecessary death in war, subpoenas. Douglas Adams wrote nothing travels faster than bad news. I do wish it continued to travel though, whizzing past me, but it hits home and stops there. It makes a hole in the wall and a cyclone is coming and robbers too, and sexual predators and brimstone. And, in breaking news, gravitational waves. We will look back in time.

_______________________ this was an 'edit' from a 2016 post. It's unchanged except for when it was published. 

  

YOUR BILLS PAID

Add caption

An .xdocs On Both Your Houses.

On a phone with incriminating data on it, text messages amounting to edicts on a particular individual ,signals intelligence, and it being discovered by this individual. What to say to that? I have no answer.
No, about my tinder match
I have no idea either

However I can't help but feel that moments earlier J was chewing taffy chews so disgustingly I fervently believed she deserved to die for it, before she could do it again. I sustained that passion into safe and silent distance, too. Not for long, but then it's a thought I hope is aberrant from my usual precepts for crime and punishment, so any length of time or indeed its mere existence had pushed us passed frankly long enough. But then so did the inebriated mastication of the now repellent sweets.
Either way, if this record should ever make it back to Josie Hughes it would hardly constitute an account of my love for them. Or would it? it's certainly the culmination. It was only minutes ago after all.
I had, while walking, meant to text Jack this observation and that it would be on both our phones.Entropy, right? A title like 'Phone Hack Jack' was to be shoehorned into the night's writing from a country without exports.

Twice exposed that night by the current, the looming present, the other being at the cigarette counter of the supermarket at sometime around midnight: the problem is we all knew as we do now just what eastern standard time it was, it was all around us (we each had phones smarter than us, and the cashier a number of other objects all, too, counting down). It was midnight and I had cigarettes - was swiping card to finalise payment for posterity - and the cat dying of cyanide in the box next to me did not, calling the cashier a complete fucking idiot. Credit to that cat, I didn't expect idiot to be the noun that time, the cashier being as they were an Asian woman and the cat white guy somewhere between 20 and death. Thankfully he did this while storming off which left me there to comment the exchange was unfair, abusive. But she had challenged my request for cigarettes too. And I had used the same line the hopefully now dead cat whose appeal was denied had used. Interesting questions raised about morality, privilege, tolerance, the nanny state, time management, and the nature of causality there.

I say hopefully dead as I felt quite sure if not the cat would be so incensed by the order of the prior ten minutes it had left him murderously hateful towards me as collector of spoils and potential collaborator, and at least apathetic bystander, and would follow me on my walk home in hope of ending my life. I think I could potentially want to kill someone who bought a winning lottery ticket after I had bought a useless one as much as want and believe I deserved said winning ticket.

This isn't quite good enough for the amount I have invested in editing it. Time to post.