Castrated Triple-Amputee

It is arguable that I have spent much to much time down in the lab, as it were, this summer to properly focus, on documenting the horrors that go on all around me (much as a result of my own horrible behavior). But this is fine, I thought to myself as I scooped up another shovelful of dog shit from the yard and brought it to that awful, fly infested shit bucket - Summertime is that brilliantly hazy time when ideas fester and atrophy until only the really bad ones grow legs and become unwieldy, peasant dominating corpse-monsters who terrorize all those lowly civvies in the neighborhood etc, etc...

Bad ideas like trying to resurrect a recently donated motorcycle that's missing more parts than a castrated triple-amputee, with a budget of exactly Zero Dollars, but merely a wealth of MacGuyver-like ingenuity, and of course, a few beer cans, some low-rent epoxy and maybe some duct tape for good measure. These kinds of weird projects tend to taint your every thought with an ugly, obsessive crushing force that squeezes out all other thoughts, until you're looking at everything as if it could be part of this offensive master plan, which will no doubt be forgotten or dis-enthused in another week or so.

So that's where I'm at - stuck inside my own head, no light bulb burning, just the dim, grey glow of obsession tickling the tinkerer's bung of my wrinkled and puckered mind. If you need me, I'll be over here twitching and nursing the bags under my eyes with soggy tea bags.