My existence is putty. And I think I hear a toddler coming. I wonder if all that is me is non-toxic.
In the case that it’s not putty, but a book, I proclaim that this chapter sucks, and you should probably skip ahead.
In the case that it’s neither putty nor a book, but a houseplant, lop off this branch. It’s killing the core.
In the case that it’s not putty, nor a book, nor a houseplant, but rather a planet, this crater is deep and cold.
In the case that it’s not putty, nor a book, nor a houseplant, nor a planet, but instead a double-entendre, this is the boring understanding.
In the case that it’s not putty, nor a book, nor a houseplant, nor a planet, nor a double-entendre, but alternatively a syllable, it’s the one people skip when they’re talking but are still forced to write.
In the case that it’s not putty, nor a book, nor a houseplant, nor a planet, nor a double-entendre, nor a syllable, but rather a rattlesnake, then…
…then bring on the fucking toddler.
