When I came to, the general back-alley ambience of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul. How long had I been lying there? All these signs of violence. What had happened? There was evidence in this room of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 AD. What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos smeared with mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust? These were not the hoofprints of your average God-fearing junky. It was too savage. Too aggressive.
This is Clyde. He was born with Cerebellar Hypoplasia. There’s no pain associated, he just has to work a little harder to get where he wants to go. Don’t pass without leaving him a heart ❤️
One of the few ways I can almost be certain I'll understand something is by sitting down and writing about it. Because by forcing yourself to write about it and putting it down in words, you can't avoid having your say on the subject. You might be wrong, but you have to think about it very intensely to write about it.
@TheOnion Here are a few musings from G.S."I never eat pie." "Since the age of 13 I've never seen myself nude." "One day I will be vindicated." "If you want a friend in D.C. get a 𝑾𝒐𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒆." "Can I run for the senate?"😎