Metaphor, or something.
Dumping the contents of my spent noodle in the Colander of the Technocrats that doubles as a helmet +1 vs. edged attacks, I find that 94% of my posts are about me, myself, I, & things that these three separate beings & their affiliated homies both flesh & electric hopefully find Pee-Wee's Big Adventure hilarious --
I'm trying to use the phone but I don't get no respect zipzop bopzittybop.*
-- & that 99% of my offline writing (thus, inversely, synaptic warp & weft, too) is the same save that last gig because only about 23% gets interpreted by rods & cones bobbing in other skulls since I maybe fear awkward more than death [ed. note: not really, but being a perpetual optimist, I assume that I'll die when the Wheelie Bus flies off the Detroit-Superior bridge due to an explosion caused by a transit cop firing his grenade launcher wildly at a fare jumper & not whilst in a federal torture chamber or slowly torn to shreds by a basement Necronomicon experiment gone horribly wrong is there any other kind].
Being selfish -- & oh, I am, ask those who know -- this isn't a problem. Being wise -- & oh, I am, for I know that I know nothing about everything except that plus ça transmogrifie [ed.note: I just added a verb to French, go me] -- this is. The need to spill in order to start the change [ed. note: not that shit, fuck that shit, you know the shit I mean] & the aftermath are, well, cue the music already.
Even when I'm being serious, I resort to this blessing, this curse.
The pinball rattle is more complex than what's shown here [ed. note: how to avoid tough rooms: it takes two to lie; one to lie, & that same one to listen, & oh yeah that cold cut tray is all yours], more than a simple aesthetic desire to avoid uninformed artistic commentary &/or factual discourse on either the Satanic puppet army of late capitalism or any other exterior arctic molasses death spiral because 1)I'm kind of dumb & 2)yawn, so I choose to hermetically seal inside a combustible Erlenmeyer flask of cavernous low maintenance ECHO ECHO ECHO Echo echo, white noise routine, & the desire to shout until inky exhortation becomes the mimesis of a flamethrower-throated blues but that would mean guts everywhere & they're real messy & I'm too lazy to clean that up & I don't have any booze to soothe shredded
♪ Belly button
you're the one
you make complaining about slack, acceptance & the lack thereof lots of fun ♫
That's not very catchy. Storm of the Yeti, we hardly knew ye.
♪ wizard van
Scythian axe in the back
next to the munchies
in the wizard van
*there's your 80s nostalgia follow-up, tom. You're welcome.