j. and p. are soc-ers. and i'm extra extra curious. so i tried this soc-ing thing. in briefs, soc-ing is when you let thoughts flow on paper, kind of like some people speak without thinking, but here you write. outside briefs, soc-ing is indecent.
this is my soc 753. the number was allocated randomly by an ultra-performing computer.
let stars come round and show us their corners and then we'll see what happens, but what happens when this doesn't happen isn't much, or well, at least it doesnt mean much, not to the peas and the bees, they are mostly concerned with other matters. horses might care, for they are big and strong and caring isn't something they have to worry about, which is why sometimes they dedicate a lot of their free time to caring. it's like knitting for bored or boring, slightly entrepreneurial modern females. and it is also, for them, a form of care. unless you think of the curse, the knitter's curse, or whatever it's called, it is a curse, they said so, 40% or 16% or 23% of people who knit, felt cursed when their beloved broke up with them after receiving a caring gift such as mittens, or a sweater, or an unfashionable hat. i mean most relationships last forever, so it is only natural to assume that these numbers, whichever one might be correct, are proof woof woof for the fact that if you knit and you're in love and you care then it will go bad some of the times. which is absolutely scary, very scary, marmaduke on marmelade kind of scary. i'm pretty brave on the outside and pretty scary on the inside. my insight into my inside scariness came one expectedly foggy but turned out sunny afternoon in one of those cold months that are supposed to be very cold, but then you get one of those days that is completely warm, sunny side up warm, and you don't know what to do with it, it leaves you cold, you're expecting cold and you'd go out but maybe you're supposed to stick to the blanket and potato puree plan, maybe smoke a cigarette in the sun but you can't carry your blanket so you quit. so one of those days, when i was brave enough to break the knitter's curse by not knitting and the potato puree plan by letting all the potatoes go bad, so bad that they started drawing grafitti in their drawer-social-home, i took my hand and went outside and i walked on the streets imagining all the people i see are me. what would i be like if i was the tall, big mouthed, worker, who walks into a kiosk and buys a muffin and then spends five minutes daydreaming about ponies or the shrunk lady with a trolley in which she's carrying some lost souls, and she walks them around her neighbourhood, taking them to meet bohr and telling them how she likes food with lumps, or the girl walking with her boy, with scars of past i'll be alone for ever fear in her eyes and a clutch of the hand around the boy that should've scared him a bit, but it was too cold for him to feel it. no wait, it was warm, but he was naturally cold. and after i imagined everyone is me in a very non-narcistic but more probabilistically wonderful way, i got pretty full, like after attending a buffet in a long time, you can't stop stuffing yourself, and even if your stomach is somewhere around 1l or maybe more, you've eaten the equivalent of a baby elephant, equivalent maybe in kilocalories or at least in kilometaphors. that fullness was terrible and i never concluded properly why i was scary inside, but the experiment didn't fail, because it wasn't set up to be an experiment in the first place, but an experience, and i've experienced it, a priori.
the "recipe" involves control murder, which is, in fact, unpunishable in some states (of mind).