FEAR of the RED SEA

The Reddest Red Sea (yet redder)

My analyst suggests that I can’t live with myself, which begs the question, with whom can I live? Perhaps monkeys, their asses hyaline red (redder than the reddest Red Sea) in-uterus pre post menstrual with depersonalized emotional disturbances, perhaps not. Or mental patients, whom I find so delightful and full of an unbridled enthusiasm for the simplest details, things you and I often miss out on in our haste to purloin a Mocha Java smoothie sweetened with petroleum byproducts and demurral sugar. Perhaps I am a mental patient but haven’t the wherewithal to know it. Perhaps I live in an insane institution, a fucking Bedlam, where Skinner’s box shucks dopamine from syntax. Gods forbid godsfearlessness and poor hygiene. It would have been much less time consuming, as far as I can see, to have used a comb caked in Boil Cream to part the part in the Reddest Red Sea. For the time being (Headgear, of course, fucked that up for us) I will live with myself until I find suitable lodgings.