Stress. Is relative. Or to be more accurate. Stress is relatives. And what with everything being relative, well that would mean that stress is all around us. But if love, actually, is all around us, then that would mean that stress equals love and all around (ie everywhere) would be relative. Which could be a problem, as at any time I may turn into a square MC, and slam dunk the funk.
If I were to dunk the funk, then I would probably trigger some kind of wormhole, by simultaneously proving that continuum is contiguous and the rhythmym is mellifluous. And possibly superfluous. But never viscous. Betty Boo is doing the do and there’s nothing you can do. Unless you’re a relative, in which case proceed to Go via the stair upon which a little mouse is sitting on, right there.
A little mouse. With clogs on. Well. It sure beats dunking the funking. And if you don’t like, what you see here, get the funk out. Although out itself is relative, as we have already proved, see words passim.
Passim is as passim does. Et tu Brutus. Yes, for are we not all relatives on the spaceship Funkadelic.
And then the pictures of the kittens arrived and all was well. You can’t beat me, stress. No, no, no. Try to send a man to rehab, I say no, no, no. Or, as I am, actually, relatively well around, I say.
Maybe. That is all.
