Brittney went upstairs to ask her husband a question. She found him sitting on their bed and watching a football game on television. “Honey, how would you like to go to a movie tonight?”
“You know I don’t go to theaters!” Abraham Lincoln yelled.
Dr. Horton entered the room and took a deep breath. “There’s been a slight mix-up. We accidentally replaced some of your plasma with plasma.”
Brownell frowned. “I’m not following.”
Across the hall, nurses rushed into another room.
“You’re familiar with the plasma in your blood?” Dr. Horton said.
“Not really. I know there is such a thing.”
“Well, this plasma is different.”
“Different like it’s from a different person?”
“Different like it’s a completely different substance with the same name.”
Vexing fact of reality, fateless truth:
flea markets do not sell fleas.
Come message me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
Of hash and tag and smiley face,
The punctuation masquerade.
That motherfucker He-man finally got to him.
Broke his spirit.