Old Poem- "Rash Recovery"

Old Poem- "Rash Recovery"

Just don’t think I’m crazy, I’m celestive. There’s some
electrical lights and dancing in my life. A trip to Carlsbad,
California, leaves me with the savoring of Albertaco’s lunch
burrito in Vista, California; Tip Top Meats by San Diego,
California; nightly IN-N-OUT; grandma’s Snapple Tea and
fudge star confections; a hotel breakfast lobby with glittery
and unsmelly Christmas pinecones, and waffle liquid; plus
the thieves over an afraid petite driver at Arco’s gas station
by Thibodo Road. La Quinta Inn gave my family twenty dollars
off a night’s stay for the cleaning-gal’s absence on a rainy mildew
afternoon, and I was entranced by our room’s two-knob shower
and the sorted piles of bleach white towels. San Diego has
some news about crime however the situations fit their
problems, but my parents adored the "I Love Bagels" bagel-house
in Oceanside, California, because of its vivid and avid liveliness
and general relationships to that local community since decades
before. The reader might guess that my hotel experience was a
version of prosperity and hostility, and I can’t decide between
those two factors except to do so by making claims about slightly
scalding water pressure if it was extremely quiet; in consideration,
giving remarks about La Quinta Inn’s massage bar. It’s a soap bar
that doesn’t have the white of ivory like Molton Brown’s
ylang-ylang lotion, but it’s as tough as Motel 6’s soap bars while
being unbreakable or fragile, and it’s also built with technological
bumps and ergonomic ridges for pressurized rubbing and a tiny
bit of creaminess in scrubbing. I have thick skin for the vibe I feel;
vibes are feelings, and I let the hot water phase I’m in take its toll,
especially after I spent three extended late mornings standing in
the coolness of heat and various feelings for continental coffee
at no cost. Depending on how big a person’s body is, it can be
impossible to give the whole body a soapy bathing massage since
the soft invigorating round plate surface eventually melts and
leaves the bar flat but hardly smudgy. There’s no fruity flavor scent
or the wafting appeal of the desert breeze from the massage bar,
so let’s consider how it isn’t stale or boring. First off, comfort is not
pointless in every occasion and relaxation behind the pretty curtains
and slippery floor just revolves over me. Sometimes it’s better to be
wet, then dry, with a scent that seems to come from a good meal of
beauty, the kind that I can’t eat but want to linger around with my
inner consumptions, body and mind. I don’t bathe while resting as
though I’m on a California King bed, at least not too often, and the
hair dryer is an electronic option rather than a fabric softener, quite
literally. The massage bar is constructed with the classic clean like
bath salt from Goodwill thrift stores, but it’s very likely to condition
and alter your hair if it’s used for that area. In my mind, conditioning
of any kind, machine or shampoo or whatever, is simply a matter of
existence instead of choice; the washing customer will get an effect,
a cause, a reputation besides just attention, update and scrutiny.
The product isn’t designed with any pro-V and contains no retail
value. Indeed, it’s a smarter idea for businesses to give poor souls
value without their input. Just think about true gifts. If a public’s
indignation is a goal for capitalists and consumers falter, quality must
be issued without fearing questions first. So, La Quinta Inn’s massage
bar is a light commodity for hunger and public anticipation. I hope La
Quinta Inn continues its services even as I would stand in a cardinal dorm
and leer into the blurry paintings of nostalgia and wild nature. My dad
found out about the painter of the paintings for our room who has the
same name as so many people, and the thick water colors of one
particular frame of a depiction of a tea-room left my mind with an
appetite for crispy tablecloths and wonderful manzanas. How
was it to be? So, the massage bar results in sleek skin with buttery
smoothness and visitors can twist the showers’ knobs in certain
combinations like those tricky combination P.E. locks for an interesting
event of upkeep and personal treatment. I admit that my schizophrenia
medication gives me a new bulk of blood, and now I shower, watch TV,
play videogames, and contact beaches in the manner of a rampant user,
although I’ll wash more if my urban attitude is at bay. Scraps of
hardened soap cover my visage and citizens seem to arrive at me for
their lack of complete trust. Of course, my mood can be pretty dark
and I attempt to appropriate my posture anywhere. Aristotle may have
an ancient proclamation for humanity’s appearance despite his body’s
disappearance. Greek philosophers can be like the ghosts who linger as
if they're crystal ink over our heads. Old Spice products aren’t disgusting
to me when I’m dealing with my body like a sweating vagabond by car
for ethereal plains, and so casino gaming keeps itself, and La Quinta Inn’s
massage bar to me remains as a source of lush water and happy
beginnings to quick shopping of French stars and Alaskan chocolate.
Just don’t think I’m crazy, I’m celestive.