Cumamdevenitcamil's Weblog

What’s with these thin fingers lying inside my stomach as if they had never been borrowed from an animal? I like summers when I say “hot” and my fingers point to these scrambles. They live downstairs, near the liver. Different worlds, I live in a different cosmos. They are inside me, I feed them with all kinds of crap, they keep moaning – instead of an alphabet, I hear sounds like “squuuueak” or “weeeah”…it’s a bloody refined sound, isn’t it?

I befriended them while a child. I was eating worms once upon a week, a cradle of worms eaten with honey. I expect my honeymoon to arrive and watch it pass away, taking my intestines as far as possible. Grocery stores…places where men in costumes cut the meat down, slice it into ring-pieces, throw it on markets.

I’ve really smelled my intestines. They sure give me the creeps, especially when I think about so many illnesses (cancer included). I’m no hypochondriac, at least I’m not pretending to be a very realistic one (just like in Woody Allen’s comedies)… I don’t hate sick people, any more than dead people make me sick. Intestines: an ode to power – the power to subtract vitamins from junks. We couldn’t do that, unless you existed! Oh, Lord! God Bless the Intestines! And Robert Burns too!

He thinks he’s the best he’s one of them terrorists doesn’t care much about animals.

He befriended Russia, India. Who is he?

The defender of human rights, the most relevant person in the whole world. Who is he?

Guess…

Taa-na…taaa-na….

Yesterday Michael Jackson told me about his dream he wanted to check on his wife he is dead of course it was just a dream.

Yesterday Michael was sad he said “I’m so sad” he read Said and so sadistic comments he tried on my blog.

Yesterday Michael Jackson reminded me I had a meeting downstairs with Phil Collins I said “I can’t go out there. I’m too sad.”

Yesterday in my dream Michael used his brush to molest a child the child said “NO! I’m too SAD!”. Michael picked up his brush and steered it away from this blessed child of his.

Yesterday I dreamed of Michael being redeemed by the Matrix. Oh, no…the robots will be here in any second! I’ll log out later, anyway…

This is not my hand, Michael. They dream of you, you’re dead.

Michael, you’re the only one…that’s  a Franz Ferdinand song, moron! And who’s this Franz Ferdinand? It’s a band, moron! Oh…this dream of you begging of my purse to send it streams of affection, to kill convalescents and redeem Michael. Who are you? Michael, angel? Michelangelo? Oh, boy!