ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵃ ᵏᶦᶫᶫᵉʳ ᵈᵃʸ﹗

                projectile physics argues that if one should spit into the air, it will return to sender with a personal vendetta. the same sound logic can be followed when one is thrusted from behind by a very careless individual . . . and in following this logic, one can rightfully predict that one’s mug will capsize at the force of the blow, slopping its contents over its brim . . . as it just has. bye bye, tip-top cheer ---- it was refreshing while it lasted.

                a furtive and furrow-browed glance at his brand new guayabera confirms the detection of a nightmare breeching upon dexter’s day-in-the-life dreamland . . . he had not wished it so, perhaps would not so much as wish it on his worst and most deserving enemy . . . but there it is: that awful yellowy-brown regurgitation of his mug, an obstinate sample of what he thinks must be known as/loosely related to ‘COFFEE’ ---- plain as day, tugging persistently at dexter’s OCD tendencies; tug, tug. dexter! down here! what have we to say for such disorder?

                although he is quite surprised to see that the ravenous substance has not eaten an impressive slab of meticulous design from the fabric, as coffee made here at work is typically known for its very low rating on the pH scale, it is still a stain, and a very conspicuous one . . . and so, like a dog during bathtime, dexter refuses to move, lips unconsciously forming into a petulant pout as he holds his offensive mug at arm’s length. but because live and let die are truly words to live by ( in fact, he quite often does ), he meditates an internal ommm or two, counts each and every blessing, and cleanses his chi for good measure before proffering his most dashing dexter grin. no need for knotted knickers, dear boy. it leads to chafing.

Mainly so the void doesn’t get annoyed with how often I’m yelling into it