The Queer Folk are Dull

Plain site keeps puttin' things to me. Exceptionally clear as I walked into the coffee shop today. They now offer a brown bagged lunch and t-shirts that read "Coffee Addict." Funny stuff with them t-shirts. I haven't made use of my chest's vocal capacity for a long time now, but I try my best to love New York City. Are the worms bigger too? Anyway, it was a typical dreary day. Typical among the minor chapter of dreary days. Kind of a black sheep to the rest of 'em (talkin' bout them footprints, I tend to drag my tail / mute my path). The dude working the counter was not the one I intended to surprise with the golden nugget cased beneath my pocket. Rightly so, my hesitation secured my failure to acknowledge it. This guy was not at all excited to receive, see, or even touch a two dollar bill. The idea itself must have been commonplace to him, far ignorant to the human welfare I thought I was promoting. Hell, I should of kept the fucker to myself if it were to be thrown into the register so haphazardly. This is what laptop music does to the functioning brain; internally vomits the potential muse into a sea of stale PBR, swelling from the bottom of your torso. Time to bump up to a Large, eh? Maybe even snag an XL for next year. Irregardless, nice graphic. Even better (un)placement. Which call of African wildlife has yet to be claimed? Pink on brown always says "that." With a slight grin and need for more, I went with my best option and spoke. "That queer bill was meant to excite you . . . Rainy-Day Hero III (Full Band Version)." Apparently, he couldn't read the pixel-ratio of my dancing lip. Stood dull and proud, completely uncharmed. Addict fo' sho. The bone game is a gamble. House'll always win.