It's amazing. After nearly 150 days of forcing myself to strive in excellence, and at times completely failing miserably at it too; I've nothing to show for it but words. Words. Meaningless words, fucked-up pre-disposed words that have little or no significant value and yet these motherfuckers hurt like some Post-European blight.
I don't want them anymore. I don't want to engineer my own fate by steering my life with my verbal repetoire. It's making me nauseous. How every vowel, every syllable and every piece of prose could have a shadow hiding it's colorful, vibrant adjectivous (I made that word up, sue me) nature. I am the messiah of my own litany, and yet it spreads wounds like some hateful pathogenic virus.
I'm Edward Scissorhands, only without the bad-ass blades attached to whence my original pentadactyl limbs have been; instead I'm armed with twelve years of the English language, barrelled up my noggin, waiting to be used in a manner that can only label me as a smartass, witty, good-with-words or whatever variants. Either way, these cheap namesakes sound too gaudy on me. I'm overrated. Too big for my figure.
Shit, I've made my rant sound like I've developed super-powers that have surfaced over the last decade or so. I can feel it bubbling out now, my perpetual smartass is going to talk soon. Best hide underneath my own self-appreciative shell before this rant makes more referencing than a Chris Rock joke.
***
Reading this again after a decent nights sleep is like looking forward in a surrealist nightmare. My words do come to good use, you big asshole. Stop interjecting yourself - making yourself sound like a underworldly, Nazi-hugging terrorist is like sticking feathers up your ass. You're still not going to be that piece of poultry you thought you were. Like the Fonz, your words will have it's happy days. (Shitty pun. Don't mention it ever again). All it takes is an intertextual reference, and you'll realise you do a lot of good to those around you. Much more good than you or I could ever percieve.
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