Fuck it

Double-slit experiment day, electron smeared out on the wall exhausted by its identity crisis. Some fucker went out with a firearm and shot a congresswoman at point-blank range in the head, along with seventeen other people, what the fucking fuck, what, what? There is too much salt in my baking today as though it has wept and my mind is thermosetting with no cure although the rage might get it there, drag it like mechanical extrusion from its stubborn formlessness and make it do something, for christ if I have not spent hours wondering whether I am a bowl or a mug or a dressing table box and people are dead on the ground in front of their grocery store.