It's like this, ya'll. Maybe you don't believe in group prayer, or good vibes, or even wishful thinking. Maybe you read Voltaire at a precocious age and still think optimism is veiled pessimism. But I need some help drawing down the energy of the Gods, yo, because I am 10 days away from being kicked out of my house and I have no place to live yet.
Hence, Fish n Chips. Throughout the ages, inviting Fish n Chips into the fry pan has been the most certain way to align our nefarious intentions with the cosmos. We don't really know why, but I assure you a crack team of transpersonal psychologists are working on the algorithms around the clock.
So, join me and imagine a delicious plate of Fish n Chips. The fish is golden. So are the chips. Little steamy wafts are steamily wafting. Say to yourself "Dear God of all Fried Foods, how about going ahead and giving Dungan a break?"
thank you for your patronage.
dabbling in ecopsychology, consciousness, and perpetual culture shock
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About Me
- Ryan
- I'm a consciousness researcher on the edge of academia. Or perhaps just the edge.
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2 comments:
It'll all work out, pirate. It'll all work out. Worst case scenario, you move all your belongings into a storage unit and check into the Sandpiper Inn, home of the sketchy bedspread (use of bedspread tongs is strongly advised). Sooner or later, if you hold out, your odds alone will simply prevail. This is the most gross, crude form of Fish n' Chips. But it's a form of Fish n' Chips nonetheless. Okay, so that's worst case. Best case is that Fish n' Chips acts immediately, like hair bleach, clearing away obfuscations and obstacles, leaving only a quaint bungalow at the end of the trail. Not a bad way to go - the way of immediacy. So, like, since time is, um, an illusion, they're both equal. It's just a matter of whether or not you'll be bedspread-tonging it...or not. Good luck, pirate. I believe in what you do.
(Sandpiper Inn...more like the Piedpiper Inn...)
Yea, Dungan, on this day let thy golden fish call out to thier sea home and draw ye close to the Richmond. Let thy salty chips harken to thier roots and ground you securely thither. Let thy oily wrappings hasten to the hands of thy potential landlord, that ye may grease his palm with cash deposits. Let thy steamy waftings...no, never mind thy waftings. Those things are fucking useless.
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