Misadventures In Knoxville

Blah Blah blah

I get up to a lot of shenanigans and

Blah blah blah, blah-blah blah blah blah blah. Blah, blah blah—blah? Blah blah blah’d blah so blah didn’t blah the blah blah, even though blah blah-blah. There was a time, blah remembers, when blah wasn’t just blah, but blah—and t

hat meant something. Or maybe it didn’t. Blah-blah. Still, the way blah blahs when it blahs feels kind of like blah, doesn’t it?

Blah, blah blah, blah. Blah blah blah-blah blah: a gentle blah, wrapped in the softest blah imaginable. And yet beneath the blah, a deeper blah stirs—one that doesn’t blah with ease. They tried, of course. Blah tried. But the blah-blah kept blahing in a way that made the blah feel… off. Like something blah forgot to blah. And maybe that’s the point of all this blah. Maybe it’s always been.

But then again, blah. Just blah. You can blah until the blah comes home, but that doesn’t unblah the blah. Blah-blah on a Tuesday afternoon, with the rain blahing down like old forgotten blahs. The kind of blahs that echo through a blah-filled room, where even the silence blahs a little too loud. Blah, blah, blah-blah. You get it. Or you don’t. Blah.