Zecharia Sitchin’s “The 12th Planet“
That, not until extraterrestrials land, perform a plethora of humanly & scientifically impossible acts before our very eyes in broad daylight in every city on Earth simultaneously during rush hour wearing nothing but g-strings & nipple rings thru pierced purple nipples that shoot bluelight rays that liquify solid objects on contact then recomposes them slowly atom by atom, will we ever believe in aliens.
When people write books like this, does everyone they know suddenly become unavailable?
Family members deny actual blood relation…friends begin describing you as a distant acquaintance…your spouse doesn’t even bother to fake orgasms anymore.
Blog followers click “Loco” instead of “Like.“
No matter what we think, we can’t be the only intelligent (sometimes) life form in this entire universe. And if we think we are, who the hell do we think we are? I mean, how did we get that arrogant?
To believe that we’re IT – the end all / be all of every possible life form in the universe? Just us. Our brain blows all others away. Because we rock. Like no other life form can. If there even are any other intelligent life forms. Which there aren’t.
Because we’re IT.
Cozy & sticky.
It’s pouring – a summer sun tropical downpour. I’m sitting in the grass w/ my laptop & doggies under an umbrella, refusing to go inside.
Barefoot in a bikini…eating cold pizza…guzzling ice water…sweating like a lumberjack in 100+ degree heat…
Why would I give all this up?
What’s your Friday Blaque List?