SPL

Before I begin, let me splurge on a spliff from my spleuchan, with some blow spliced in (splitting the difference on how high I get). Let me splay myself out on my bed (cushions on splatted wood), laptop resting on my spleen and splanchnic points south, sun shining through the potted spleenworts on my windowsill, both my splenius relaxed. I’ll splash some java into my cup with a splosh, big drops splodging with a splat the splooged splint on my leg. I’ll pop one of my splake-on-cracker snacks into my mouth. I’m still woozy from last night’s splore.

I want this stream of consciousness text to be splashy, splendid, splendorous. I want to splurge on words, not splutter in print. I want upbeat verbiage, not something splenetic and spleenish. It should conclude with a successful metaphorical splashdown for the reader, who stays metaphorically dry behind a metaphorical splashboard.

Uh oh. Splitting splintery splenium. Will write tomorrow.

For Stream of Consciousness Saturday

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