Unlimited Flexibility of Muscles

Be(b)RA, my man, do you by any chance have an idea that would rescue me from the torment called a 

thought?

Which is?

Be(b)RA, molest yoself not with impossible endeavors, PLEASE!

Like, HI Katrin(a), if I kindly ask you to chill the fuck out while I’m trying to make some sense out of the ideational staleness surrounding me, surrounding you…just like everybody-fucking-else…would you do me a favor and lemmie talk to this cool guy whose presence is not something that decorates the everyday every day, huh?

Yo, P(u)rple Hort(a)k! But, hey—watch out—what you call torment might not even be a thought for somebody else, right?

But that’s precisely what I’m trying to be relieved from.

You, wha?!

Olrajt, Be(b)RA, don’t take it personally. I mean, please DO! But, hey, lemmie be more precise and prevent interpretational acrobatics detrimental for you, just as they are for me, just as they are, would, and will be for anybody fuckin else who cares to ask and think (perhaps even right) about the issues of burning importance for me right at this mafothefucking moment. As significant as the umbilical cord during the nine months of pregnancy—or the prenatal period, depending how one looks at it--and even more so once that period is over and a scalpel marks the first oxygen pang flooding the lungs with a task that from that moment on becomes the everyday, the yesterday, and ye mafotherfucking tomorrow.

Shoot, then.

Who?

Either.

A pair of sausages and then mustard and then a pan and then oil and then a fork and then a plate and then a knife and then a napkin and then the hands and then the fingers and then lifting and then movements and then gastrointestinal ceremonies and then salivating for more and then more and then more of the more and then saliva saliva saliva…ha…ha…fucking HA!

You wha?!

Like, P(u)rple Hortak is saying that the chief of the tribe moonzE conzA claims unalienable right to the remix of the history before it died after it never existed…ahem.

Two things, at least, to start with: There is a scientific law that says whoever was born on a Friday will marry a sailor and have a house in the first home of zodiaK.

Like WOW! But what the fuck does it do to my query?

Nothing. It only says that your mind  can be tormented if you understand it as a pile of muscles capable of stretching with a little help of blood being pumped into it.

I do not think of my mind as a primarily material thing.

Then chill the fuck out and don’t use the word thing to describe the denotatum as you just did.

Denotatum what is I cognize of have not.

Then get the fucking dictionary and have some fun time reading it imagining that it is a novel written by somebody’s granny while she was sailing the seven seas tripping herself to death by the imagery of a husband-sailor whose mind is not a thing, but not not thing. Nowhadamsayin…

Huh. I guess so.

Moreover, mind can be tormented  even if that torment for the flexibility of somebody else’s mind is but a cool breeze in the hair of a three year old while the little one busies oneself with a thought of a flight crassly confronting the reality of killing a long afternoon in the kindergarten swinging on a swing…

One may, but may not want to choose the definition of torment that would enable the flexibility of the muscles of the mind thereby providing one with the opportunity to see the world as a web whose nodes would be of the approximately following content:

Three years plus five glasses of voddy a day equals keeps whoever away. And then watching TV eight hours a day multiplied by the years one’s great granddad spent daily staring at his or her toe equals the number of slices of bread that a dinosaur can eat for breakfast on an average summer day when digestion is not the highlight of one’s existence. And then swine sport called jawdropping glass divided by the times a schoolgirl crosses the street on a Saturday when the weather is not so speactacularly perfect and parents are not at work equals the number of years one will spend during the span of fifty years playing tennis like an obnoxious child would deconstruct toys just for the sake of saying that his or her father’s computer is mightier than anybody’s laptop, notebook, nook, pook, fook, or fuckin RUK!

I choose not to choose. Me too.

Like fuck!

Dapoltri! Dapoltri!