Pea yard, junk selling, Literature new. Ferlinghetti.

Ha my computer blew up. The flames flew high, caressing the ceiling, tickling my nose. I tried to pry into it and save a screw or two, you know, something to remember it by, but the firemen stopped men. Dragon breathing. Since my town doesn't have a courthouse anymore, the lawyers are trying to figure out the best way to sue me for damages. I told em my dad was a lawyer for a prestigious firm and they backed away holding their hands out, open palmed, sweat appearing out of no where, stains casting their shadows on the fuckin peayard's pants. My dad isn't a lawyer, he's a junk man. I'm taking over the family business. Junk for sale! When they came, those men in the white junpsuits, I told em, hell I told em good. Junk for sale! Get it while it's hot. Then the junk, which makes up my house, collapsed and I was the only one to get hurt. I'm writing this from a coma. Junk.