Yes, shit happens to Buddhists, too.
“Someone has to, as much as I want to hear more about the old man’s song of impermanence, not.”
“I’ve had this guy in my head since Eisenhower was president.”
“That’s Mad Men old.”
I wouldn’t mind visiting Cuba, just to see the cars before everything changes.
I’m on the car thing.
Babs is driving.
The old man is writing on his phone.
His father would be having a coronary about now but his son is pretty chill about it all, his Buddhist thing.
“It’s all just one big adventure to him at this point.”
They have insurance and are on their way to drop their vehicle off to be repaired.
“Don’t be taken in by appearances.”
“He is every bit as pissed as his father would be, it’s just part of his act, a plot twist, another turn for him to take.”
Nobody knows what is going on under that hat of his.
“He always liked hats, even as a child.”
It’s sounds like you are writing a eulogy.
For the folks following along at home.
Long story short, his heart stopped recently and he’s like, good to know, hypoglycemia is now a thing for me.
At the moment the old man is more concerned about his having to use the bathroom.
It’s all those diuretics he’s on for the heart failure.
Thank you, Amitabha, Starbucks, Om Mani Padme Hung, the old man dedicates the merit of his finding relief in his moment of need.
“The music sucks, where are we?”
I think we are in Arlington Heights or something like that.
“That’s Holding on (featuring Josef Salvat & Niia) by Tourist according to Siri.”
“Words said by nobody ever but I’m not at all surprised a machine recognizes its own creation.”
“No, it may not be the Beatles, the ego behind the sound that you impute some kind of suitable back story that affirms your sense of yourself.”
End scene. Fini.
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