This is apparently what I write while watching TV and drinking bourbon:

The dawn stretched and yawned and coughed up another pouty flower. The pollen drifted along the alleys in wide bands and yellow lines, decorating cars and trees and garbage with its itchy good morning. I tried to cover my mouth and close my eyes and pretend that the morning was just filled with yellow fog that would dissipate with the late morning winds. But the pollen swarmed around me, circling like a hive of mad yellow jackets, black and yellow with their mad hiving, stinging my eyes and swatting my nose. There was nothing besides. There was only the dull itchy yellow pollen, coughed up by a pouty yellow flower left over in the afternoon delight of its plump courtier, sardonic laughter reverberating along the gutters of the alley. I pulled my green t-shirt over my mouth and my nose and put my head down, as though against a strong wind, plowing through the yellow pollen storm in search of her lost squinky, dropped out of the window of the car as it piddled down the road yesterday evening. The winds weren’t strong enough to remonstrate me, nor was the pollen strong enough to admonish me. I could still hear her cry as she went to bed, her soft pouty cry for her lost squinky girl. And the teary lake of her green eyes against the pillow wilted me.