Malapropos of something

Wild thyme, huh? I should know, having maced the herbal portion of my SATs. But that was high school, when my future was still very much in front of me. I had a great many influenzal teachers who taught me how to lean. Who provided a fresh box of issues whenever I was under the weather, feeling humid and confused. Remarkably, I attempted college, matriculating every night. A large cash of preferences and letters of recrimination certainly didn’t hurt my briefcase. 

Soon enough, I entered the working world through several unpacked intern shifts. The first couple were reproduction companies, specializing in Doc films and the occasional nurse shorts. As hard as it was, I had to leave New Jersey, the Garden Estate. Communing every day on the train takes its toll. Riding the subway back then was dangerous, as well. This was Jared’s hey, day, after all.

I couldn’t take a chance becoming just another swerving artist, living bed check to bed check. Perpendicularly behind on my rent despite making all the right angles financially. After weighing the pros and cones (remembering to use the tear function) I seriously considered running from president. Although, the pectoral college isn’t as strong as it once was. Joseph Sixpack doesn't vote anymore. My age was a marker against me and there weren’t many good opticians left to speak of. Sure, I could’ve taken up a musical implement, like say, the bag pies, and joined a yokel Fife and Dumb club. Playing timeless tunes like “Larry Owens” or “Amazing Graze.” I think the ladder song is about cows munching on grass, since they never seam to smoke the stuff.

It’s impolite to know that I own a car, a Manuel. With its Styx shift and pearl clutch, I’m quiet lucky. I’ve been memorializing baseball statics since boyhood. Which is hardly a lubricative career path. No one’s going to give you a book of Job out of the goodness of their hearth. Not with our county’s fun and mental separation of church and state. If they ever brought me up on charges, I’d defiantly plead the filth. We’re not that far away from having a Secret Police either - a 21^st century gazpacho. 

Then again, I can’t help but be quite opulent when pixelating the future. My appetizer for news is lower than it used to be. So I consult less, digesting only what’s necessary. Don’t lose hope when you can still win it. 

Carpet diem.