On the Other's Land

It's hard to concentrate because I'm listening to Enid right now.
And that song always gets me.
"...and every time I remember the taste of your lip gloss."
That's me.
I'm enid.

The internet, when you size it up, is the sum of humanity's knowledge this far.
It's everything that we have.
Whatever we have done or intend to do. That's the internet.
So, is it just me that considers it fucked to see that the most important search of the day is:
Smoking Orangutan.
I am the only one who thinks that's fucked, aren't I?
Sure, it's adorable because it's a monkey doing something
(Kind of how evolved versions of us will look at current versions of us),
But couldn't they have had the monkey do something healthier?
Like chewing gum.  
Ever feel like you were born in the wrong century or decade?

Coincidence can be so tender sometimes.
I played some Randy Travis for Avril the other day.
For no real reason, particularly.
Aside from Randy's being the fucking man.
All of these Tim McGrath cowboy hat jerkoffs don't deserve to tie Randy's bolo.
Anyway!
Avril has this unit nextdoor neighbor who enjoys playing Kixx Country at full blast in the middle of the afternoon.
He probably enjoys a bunch of other things that I'd consider intrusive.
I think he deals drugs.
Whenever he walks up the steps to his front porch, he does so really slowly.
While glowering and glancing up and down the street.
That's not a normal way to enter your house.
Also, he has a small motorhome.
People who own and maintain small motorhomes either deal or grow drugs.
We've all seen Breaking Bad.
Avril and I have sex and then we stop having sex.
She's loosening the ball gag when it dawns on me:
"Randy Travis!" I shout.
And then I point at the ceiling.
Because that's what I do when I'm referring to music currently playing.
And if I think Jesus is nearby.
I point at the ceiling then too.
The very same song I had played for her.
Now for you...