Hearts for sale

Frankly I’m sick of the arguing.

I HATE arguing.

Plus it makes me sick.

And I HATE being sick. 

So I’ll just settle it once and for all. 

Which is a better term than ‘four all’.

Because what if you’re a three? 

Aren’t you still part of ‘all’?

Exactly.

Still. 

Here’s the point you all clamored here to read...

 Flu rockets are BETTER than note pads made out of dried out baby wipes!

Yes they are.

Yes. 

YES they are. 

And I’ll tell you why. 

Soon. 

But first.

Don’t get me wrong. 

Or tong! 

Ha ha. Like I’d use a made up word.

So don’t fucking get me ‘wrong’ got it? 

Because, look, ok, I get it. 

I’m not a moron. 

I know note pads are important. How else would notes be written down?

Except on all the other ways they can be written down. 

Which number the many. 

Possibly even the many, many. 

Which is fun to say. 

Almost as fun as mony, mony. 

Which is a very different saying than money, money.

In that the fact is factual that ‘mony, mony’ includes up to, and as many as TWO words that don’t mean a thing, and therefore don’t exist. 

And that’s something that MATTERS ok? 

Because I just proved the existence of the non-existent. 

So suck on that so called ‘science type sciency type types’. 

You’ve been superseded.

My FAVORITE type of sceded.

And yeah. Baby wipes?

Dried out ones no less? 

How poetically sad. 

I won’t ignore that. 

I CAN’T ignore it. 

Who could? 

The heartless? 

Do they even exist? 

And if so, how come my ‘hearts for sale’ business never took off. 

I mean we sold several dozen hearts. But was it worth the effort it took to have them donated to us by people who’d stumbled across them at drive-thru diners? 

Probably not. Because there just aren’t enough of those any more.

And I hate being sad because of nostalgia. 

It breaks my heart. 

Rendering it worthless.

The point is. 

Flu rockets! 

Flu fucking rockets. 

Those are two words I arbitrarily jammed together to start this essay, so I can argue some moronic crap. 

Or three words if you count the ‘fucking’.

And who wouldn’t? 

So yeah, that matters people.

And things that matter are important.

And importants is something I believe in. 

In fact I often think that nothing is more importants than that! 

Except for maybe REAL Flu Rockets. 

Which I’m pretty sure exist. 

And I’m pretty sure will one day be used in some arguably evil biochemical war, that just did not quite live up to its endemic like horror that we all feared. 

I mean the flu freakin’ sucks and all. 

And yeah it does kill, so don’t fucking underplay it. 

But still, it’s not as bad as say, you know, a enphansema endaplay outbreak rocket.

I mean haven’t we already talked about words that aren’t real! 

Who fucking cares! 

The End.

Ps. This esssay was brought to you by - things that make sense. 

Don’t you hate it? 

Yes you do. 

Fuck sense. 

Who needs it? 

You know what? 

I think we just joined the same page. 

How poetically beautiful. 

WAY better than being sick with the flu! 

Smile. 

Pps. These ramblings are brought to you by ‘editing’. How poetically sad.

Ppps. Ironic smile :) 

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