Meet the Gandalfs

Last night, just like every Tuesday, I went to crash with Gandalf, Tweak and The Bug. The Bug was very happy to see me. Upon my enterence she began squeaking and talking up a storm (unfortunatly I didn't catch it all. Something about "mmmiaaaagupppt!" and "wyaaaa?") and decided to illustrate her point by toddler-jogging in a tight circle around the high chair then plopping on the floor and sticking her feet up in the air and kicking. Needless to say: I agreed whole heartedly.
I helped Tweak clean a little. It wasnt' really any worse than my room until we peeled (or pryed rather) up the maton the high chair... and encountered Death! Death can come in many forms my friends. It can be a robber of your body, or a muck-about of your soul. It can come in the form of a knife, a gun or, I have recently learned, several months worth of congealed baby sustanence that looks as if the idea of leaping up and devouring your brains has occured to it on more than one occasion.
Tweak thinks she's getting old. I say: who can be old who still holds to the three pillars of teenage-dom: music, the internet, and ignoring cleaning the room for more shiney ideas?

Until further, more interesting events arise, I leave you with a poem, compossed at 6:30 this morning within 5 minutes (so don't judge me).

In slow motion
We explode

Then we peer about
And Quietly we implode

It takes several years
For the unfurling to peak

For us to rise to power
Only to be rendered weak

On so many planes we bloom
Until the life force is faded to gone

Then we choose a comfortable room
And inwardly we abscond.

Coyote out