At times I wish I were a born or young synesthete, receiving all interpretations of the vague concepts of perceptual sense on all planes. Unfortunately, this is not so. Truthfully, I have lived my life with not the faintest clue as to where it's going, walking a very angled and very treacherous path in order to, in complete finality, arrive at no place that I'd ever actually intended. Still, I can't say I've begun hum-drum. In fact, I imagine my birth to be a very violent one. One decorated with huffing, puffing, and severe howling. Actually, considering the set of lungs my mother possesses, I imagine one could have heard her from the moon were it not for the hellacious storm that showed it's face that night.
And because that is almost completely bollocks and the dichotomy of the most utter nonsense and non-brilliant un-wonderfulness, it is only natural I admit my birth was quite the common one. Life, after all, isn't a miracle, and I would be foolish to think as such. And foolish I say because we as humans give ourselves prattish back-pats and strut and preen when we manage to pop out a single child, when I've seen birds lay nests of half a dozen eggs or so. Even the most pathetically common organism manages to muck-up the gum it takes for the biological process needed for reproduction. Truly, life being miraculous is utter nonsense. Now what is miraculous is when we allow our children to grow out of their "infancy".
Now even with all those revelations of mildness and non-rarity, it still slightly annoys me that a high point in life is tatooing a syncretism of Lupe and Timbaland lyrics into my skull wishing my paucity of spirit didn't force me to buckle-up and clench seats with much knashing of the teeth during Cryo's "ownage" of the woman in the-lane-over-yonder. It's entirely true that I am a ponce, and though I might be bored, I am never that bored, and if I were to have to sacrifice a certain extent of pride on my altar of cowardice, I will gladly twist the knife and make a godawful fool of myself. After all, rhetoric and shit-talking takes a very decisive second-chair when it comes to saving one's own skin, even when one happens to be an utter and knee-deep smacktard.
Of course with all that I realise only in this age of flip and flopped value can stupidity absolute be misconstrued as worthy of high marks, that the infinite design of human things is run on stupidity and an awful ignorance. But even so, even with such a delicately deleterious bit of information, I find myself perusing all a manner of rubbish trivia, building a rigid infrastructure of useless facts and knowledge so that when I find myself in such a situation that might require brains for answer, I can make a joke and chortle self-congratulatorily at my own impressive lack of wit. Contradictory to that, as I've said, I know fully well that bravery and bugger-all idiocy go hand and hand. Maybe if I spend my life in its entirety being an outright fool, I just may end up running the world. It's something to consider.
Having read all that, assuming one did read all that, one might come to the conclusion I am the most crotchety of curmudgeons bent on negativity and having had a spoilt mood. And one would be right. But what one doesn't know is that there is a very fine line between unfortunate happenstance and completely perceived ineptitude, and my mood was spoilt the day I was born, having just gone down from there. Frankly, because I am a flawed creature, I blame my parents for this unrarely common phenomena entirely, and no threats of shoving bells so far up my ass I would jangle whilst thinking could convince me otherwise.
For all that, though, my parents are actually everything I would want to be, assuming I actually want to be anything. Dreadful and circuitous as this all may seem, this in itself actually relates to the very beginning of all this directionlessness which is what was what from the very get-go. And though I take offence at being called a vehement liar, I find that if I tried not lying, it would probably happen less. That being said, and having forgot everything in its divine entirety of what I've writ, I suppose if one were willing to look hard enough, one could, surmising or recalling, realise just what I spent this day entangled with. Of course, this is entirely one's prerogative, because Lord knows I won't.
...
And because that is almost completely bollocks and the dichotomy of the most utter nonsense and non-brilliant un-wonderfulness, it is only natural I admit my birth was quite the common one. Life, after all, isn't a miracle, and I would be foolish to think as such. And foolish I say because we as humans give ourselves prattish back-pats and strut and preen when we manage to pop out a single child, when I've seen birds lay nests of half a dozen eggs or so. Even the most pathetically common organism manages to muck-up the gum it takes for the biological process needed for reproduction. Truly, life being miraculous is utter nonsense. Now what is miraculous is when we allow our children to grow out of their "infancy".
Now even with all those revelations of mildness and non-rarity, it still slightly annoys me that a high point in life is tatooing a syncretism of Lupe and Timbaland lyrics into my skull wishing my paucity of spirit didn't force me to buckle-up and clench seats with much knashing of the teeth during Cryo's "ownage" of the woman in the-lane-over-yonder. It's entirely true that I am a ponce, and though I might be bored, I am never that bored, and if I were to have to sacrifice a certain extent of pride on my altar of cowardice, I will gladly twist the knife and make a godawful fool of myself. After all, rhetoric and shit-talking takes a very decisive second-chair when it comes to saving one's own skin, even when one happens to be an utter and knee-deep smacktard.
Of course with all that I realise only in this age of flip and flopped value can stupidity absolute be misconstrued as worthy of high marks, that the infinite design of human things is run on stupidity and an awful ignorance. But even so, even with such a delicately deleterious bit of information, I find myself perusing all a manner of rubbish trivia, building a rigid infrastructure of useless facts and knowledge so that when I find myself in such a situation that might require brains for answer, I can make a joke and chortle self-congratulatorily at my own impressive lack of wit. Contradictory to that, as I've said, I know fully well that bravery and bugger-all idiocy go hand and hand. Maybe if I spend my life in its entirety being an outright fool, I just may end up running the world. It's something to consider.
Having read all that, assuming one did read all that, one might come to the conclusion I am the most crotchety of curmudgeons bent on negativity and having had a spoilt mood. And one would be right. But what one doesn't know is that there is a very fine line between unfortunate happenstance and completely perceived ineptitude, and my mood was spoilt the day I was born, having just gone down from there. Frankly, because I am a flawed creature, I blame my parents for this unrarely common phenomena entirely, and no threats of shoving bells so far up my ass I would jangle whilst thinking could convince me otherwise.
For all that, though, my parents are actually everything I would want to be, assuming I actually want to be anything. Dreadful and circuitous as this all may seem, this in itself actually relates to the very beginning of all this directionlessness which is what was what from the very get-go. And though I take offence at being called a vehement liar, I find that if I tried not lying, it would probably happen less. That being said, and having forgot everything in its divine entirety of what I've writ, I suppose if one were willing to look hard enough, one could, surmising or recalling, realise just what I spent this day entangled with. Of course, this is entirely one's prerogative, because Lord knows I won't.
