For some reason, I decided to write pure and utter nonsense. It proved harder than I thought. I didn't even mean for the paragraphs to be linked in anyway, but upon reading over it, I noticed they go from Monday to Sunday. That is the only rhyme to this non-reason. I'm rather proud of my jibberish though. It kind of has the feel of prose poetry. I checked the website I Write Like and said it was similar to Chuck Palahniuk. Why am I not surprised? So here's my gibberish. Enjoy.
Bookshelves lined with Mondays, fall down on mice having their afternoon tea, and shake the towncar. Coffee breaks the lining of our coats like mustard on a dry leaf. Lazy turtle! never forget the sugar!
Homeopathic medicine is like a head in a jar. It gobbles up all your onions and throws them at passing old ladies, walking their husbands to classes for the blind. The fish! mightiest of sea creatures, lives in my basement. It's victual is the blood of my victims from earlier Tuesday. Boy, do we have fun.
Blackwater candy canes hang from Christmas decorations in the autumn months of spring, back to where we belong. Goodbyes were said on Wednesday morning. Oh, my poor, sweet potato! wherefore art thou? Here, we sit in silence waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for the glorious return.
Pop the top off my thumb nail and sing alleluia. Where is my Thursday? A fortnight ago was noon, but now we are in pantsless dark, searching for our horses. There they go. No, not them, but cats have galloped away. Pray for prey to stay away.
My chair is spinning like a pen in ink, squeezed from the tit of a platypus. Sit down upon your hands, my coconut. My coconut of goodness, made sweeter every time I shave. France on Friday is fantastic is you're fat. We are not, and so, we cry. The house plants of Denver find there way to the bus stop, but miss it in the nick of time.
Skip to my lieu my darling Clementine. Skip my lieu and good night to the cow at my window, seducing the Rhine. Cow! not on my watch! Give back my Saturday, good surgeon. The lamp belongs in water muffins. Tell Carl Sandburg to stop glaring.
A sad sandwich shop in New South Whales sprang up over night. Saint George fought the beast and ate the damsel in disguise. Spit her out, sandwich shop! Born of a woman, raised by a hatless bear, Saint George, Saint George, come home for Sunday tea.