Protocols

Well, this morning, the brain is nothing more than a slab of poorly butchered meat.

That’s it.

There’s no fire under it.

No charcoal grill a-hissing and a-popping waiting for its slabness.

Just meat turning to rot for the flies and buzzards…

Yeah, so, obviously quarantine protocols have been enacted. The Cozy is under lock and key and a burly British bobby until all signs of funk have passed.

Bottom line: Sometimes, it’s ugly being nutty.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe