Something old, something new, something borrowed, something syrupy

Ideally I would like myself on a gold brick patio, the sun's rays are oblique, there's a great deal of hooker's green vegetation. However just to the west of the paddock, a level up from the underground porch, every morning you should see me feeing several dozen black cats a shimmery stinky silver fish mash. The cats eat several of them from one large silver flat bowl, and from above it looks like black daisies, one two three four. With fat black gatos as petals. The un-spayed and un-neutered cats disappear into the forest and commence to cat business.

After feeding the cats and breakfast I'd prefer to spend the first part of every day swimming in a pure clear mountain lake, walking barefoot in the forest, doing yoga, smearing myself with rare oils (or being smeared), fishing half naked on a sunny rock, smoking Bob-Marley sized spliffs, doing crochet in a shady hammock, having very slow and almost nonsexual sex, collecting rare botanical samples, cliff-diving into water and sunbathing nude.

Then it's sushi for lunch. No too-big slabs of rockfish or funny chewy squids thanks, and there are valuable phytonutrients to be had in the yellow oshinko roll. After lunch it's more Kona coffee or white tea with pomegranate, then wrestling and running around lightly clad with my snarling pack of killer dogs. Once the mutts are panting in the shade and well watered, I'm putting on my boots and helmet and tacking up a capable little pony. For a little rowdy fun I might go chasing trespassers to my watering hole on horseback with a whip, or just galloping around my vast property, visiting the various projects I have set up-- the still, the fishery, the gardens, the secret altar to Ishtar, the black-cat grotto, the boobie traps.

Stick around for the rest of the daydream, I'm planning a barbecue at my secluded estate in the hills of central Mexico. My Aztec maids have boiled 100 eggs, there is brown rice scented with the umami of the gods, an entire fatted calf sizzles poolside in a grill smoker the size of a VW. The larder tables are crowded with nine kinds of squash. Butter loaded with vitamin A is embossed with the house crest-- a gothic arch and initial C-- it bobs, cooling sweetly in an ice vat. My sharp-witted chefs will prepare enough guacamole to kill a man, but I insist you sample the  faux-caine first before you go. I'm going to slaughter a Guinea fowl, and you can keep the feathers, they'll look great on your hat later when we're all tripping on the ayahuasca I've got steeping in the smokehouse. Look, here comes Juan Concepcion, my spiritual advisor up the path now.

I'm just a powerful and irresistible money love attention hatred outrage and neon colors magnet. I attract curios, antiques, interesting trash, junk objet d'art and neat clothes like a semi-solid supercooled electromagnetic superconductor pulls in the electrons. I'm like a junkyard for poetic obscurity. I have a hard exoskeleton of vintage jewelry and little girl's barrettes. I apply a thin sheen of beet-juice derived gel to my hairdo to secure everything, and I live approximately 27 days inside a cocoon of basic black and a pile of antiques cemented together.