Impulses are when a sudden Night-at-the-Roxbury-style tremor finds you in Home Depot with “This is Your Night” egging you on over the intercoms. And before you know it you’re walking under ladders.

Slaloming the whole aisle-long fucking display, in fact.

People staring.

I left laughing with a candy bar and probably made the whole thing look easy.
It wasn’t. Don’t ask me to explain, but I’m never going back there. I can’t.


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Filed under impulses, mad ruminations, schizophrenia, writing

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