I have things I have to do, I have updates to give you, a random person on the internet (or more likely it's just me in the future reading this).
That said, here's a poem I wrote a few months ago:
Popeye Determines to Overcome his Midlife Crisis After Reading a Book About Buddhism
As the third panel comes, I wait for the joke,
But it’s just Bluto waiting to fuck me up.
I run towards the spinach to save the day
but I never seem to remember just why I’m running or why.
“I am what I am, and that's all that I am”
But the truth is, I don’t know what I am.
I think I am done with this.
There aren’t enough panels for “what I am”.
There are so many
terrible/wonderful/beautiful/mysterious
panels left to find out.
The self is an illusion,
I am done lying.
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