Proper Apocalypse 2025

Pinch me, we are living during a paddleboard picnic in the middle of a piranha pond. A Pan’s Labyrinth, if you will. There’s a Pacsun to left of this Panic at the Disco decorating a pine tree, kind of times. Pot brownies platted in tiny pot brownie towers; psychedelic pastries. Like Pluto. Remember Pluto? The planet, the dog, the kid yeeted at the Planned Parenthood? 

People, honestly cover your noses, close your potholes, this is not the time for pouting, or tonguing down, pinning against or pulling out or pussy popping, we are in the middle of a prayer box in the pulpit. Please puddle me passionately into the past week.

You see this? This in the middle of my palm is not a year of pandering gone, it is in fact, a pancake pastry in a pomegranate syrup. This is such a pit bull pissing on hydrant end of days. For Pandora’s sake, stop fucking everyone on the perimeter of this Pottery Barn Palace. This is the year of, puzzle me this.

Are we living in a punching bag? We are living in an, he swear it’s as long as Pinocchio’s nose did not have to deal with this shit! They want to bring back pastoral picnics with postcards. Pause. Pause. PAUSE. President proclaimed profoundly perfect?

Paramore would never have I ever seen Papa Roach kind of times. It’s a Pollock painting! Peter Pan minus Neverland enter Persephone throwing pestilence like party poppers, panty droppers kinda ish. 

I miss buffets at Ponderosa kind of times.