Every Last Time I Come Home

It's three (FAKE) in the morning. {Try that again} 

It's the last watch of the night {Better} and I've got Fall Out Boy on the personal juke and a mid strength ale and I woke up from a dead sleep because I had a verb in my head for a reimagining of the story of Ilium that will never be published.

To think, I left the warm, welcoming bed of my special lady and her cat and the probable location of the dog with whom we will cosplay a Scooby Doo Halloween situation to sit in the cold and weirdly deficient central heating of my house to write the verb (gerund?) brumbling in regards to a smoldering fire. Haha. I'm insane.

Obsessions, man. They're a thing. I've recently gotten into horse racing and college football. Watching those camblet hided beauties, both human and equine, pulse down the green makes one want, makes one desire, makes one crave that atavistic power of thighs, of shoulders. Lucifer only had to glimpse Eve how good things might be if she only partook. She knew what was up. Adam was a dumbass. 

I'm planning to make a slow cooker chili today. Bison, kidney beans, Serrano chili, garlic, onions, diced tomatoes, bacon, dried chilies, bell pepper, chili powder, salt.

We all inhabit the realities that we'd rather not.