This isn’t a joke.

It’s more like staring a nightmare in the face

and knowing it’s about to haunt your dreams

for the next three weeks.

Try and laugh that shit off, Bubba.

Not exactly water

off a duck’s back.

Not exactly

an easy peasy piece of cake.

But when the walls start caving in around you

it’s better to just let them fall all at once

instead of wasting precious energy

trying to save your dignity in small doses.

Suck it up, take the fall, enter the abyss.

Welcome to chaos.

Hope you brought your big boy pants.

There is no time to taper off slowly.

There is no money with which to buy a reprieve.

There is no wine left for the blood to kiss.

There are no excuses remaining

that can help to shrug off responsibility any longer.

When you make a deal with the Devil

you better damn well believe

that at some point down the line

your half of the bargain will come due,

and that sleazy bastard

isn’t going to give a flying fuck

about your pitiful hurt feelings,

your brokenhearted emotions,

your frayed, torn neuron receptors, or

your stuttering attempts to try and buy

a few more days to come up with the cash.

The bill is due in full.

It’s here.

It’s now.

It’s this.

Pucker up, butter cup,

the bookie wants his pound of flesh.

Brace for impact

because the bookie carries blunt objects

for cases such as these.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar