Twenty-four hours straight, fueled by stale coffee, nicotine, and the sheer, gibbering madness of watching Elon Musk's latest brain-fart metastasize into government policy.
A Hangover Meets History My skull feels like a cheap piñata someone used for batting practice with a frozen Louisville Slugger. Central Park… whiskey… definitely whiskey. Too much. The grass…
The Talking Heads Keep Talking (While the Guns Keep Firing) So, the big brains are still jawing about a “maritime ceasefire.” Right. Like two sharks negotiating table manners while tearing…
The air hangs thick and wet, like a cheap motel towel somebody died in. Central Park. Christ. Even the squirrels look defeated, twitching in the syrupy heat
