so wait, who is Susan?
The saran wrap is melting away as the bong water glistens in the empty corners of this multidimensional room. Kebab is all around, and we’re all-too-excited to share these anxieties with you. Welcome to the planet of all planets. The sahara is near but the tropical rainforests overwhelm the whispering doors knocking on our hallucinations. I like to whistle in my free time. The transcendental epitome of this enlightenment is one that must be shared with all hungry followers, greedy to wrap their juicy lips around the moistest storm of fries, bacon, and all unhealthy byproducts of society’s wet dreams. Kick back and spark up a fiery cigarette - import only, though. The smoke is enchanted by your unknowingness - and that’s fine. Aluminium foil is all you need to capture the warm taste of knowledge.
My battery is almost empty but that didn’t matter back in 1897 when the trip began. Did you ever bruise your legs as a child and wonder why Susan would do this to you? I have, they have and I’m sure she has, too. Why have you not? It’s your turn to shine now, you shy little star! Let’s drift away amid the season of strength and bite our questions right in the ass. Skip the advertisement and grab my hand. I’m floating hard and the avocados are so ripe. So incredibly ripe. Keep repeating the word ripe and you’ll start to realise how strange a word it truly is. Ripe. Ripe. Ripe. Ok, moving on.
Don’t miss this moment.
Bandwagons of hope are coming our way. Wait - let me light another cigarette. Smoke rings are like snails in a different shell, a different home. I like to call it a mansion. Have you seen her ring? It’s beautiful. It’s filled with imaginary diamonds and weird prophets. They can sometimes even tell the future, I’ve been told. Baking kebab is a highly underestimated skill. In fact, it is a skill Susan acquired long before her birth. Woody Allen’s strange take on backward life is what I’m talking about, in case you didn’t quite catch that. One day, she threw the meat in, chopped up the rich spices and topped it off with a lot of seasoning. Taco seasoning. Taco Susaning, some say. We like to leap from mountain to frogs, accidentally kissing the mountain top secretly hoping for a prince to return once our eyes open, only to see the mere tip of the other side of a palmtree. Who kisses frogs anyway? Susan threw in each bit of her damn hands as she played the piano with her mouth on dark rainy nights like this. The jungle is your new home as the needle hits the acetate. Have we convinced you yet? Nails keep growing but her hair began to fall out in the midst of this endless hole of glory and fantasies nibbling away as the crumbs drop and dribble on the nipples of our golden vinyl players. Eight oh nine, bitch.
Don’t worry, I’m just confused and hungry.
© WHO'S SUSAN