I keep wondering, is it time yet? Is it time to admit that I don't really know what the hell I'm doing, that I'm just thrashing away at the riddle with all I've got, hoping for a gap to appear? I never really know where I stand, anymore, and I lay the blame firmly at the feet of TOO MUCH EDUCATION. I spent so much of those essential "mid-life crisis formative years," from 19 to twenty five, learning the finer points of rationalizing art. I mean that in the formal rather than the casual sense. Now that I've come to view conventional logical constructions as cancerous linguistic parasites, I can't help but view the whole scene as kind of a drag.
But anyway, It has aided me in keeping at my little hobbies, and I guess that must be a blessing in some sense because it's that much less time for smoking cigarettes, right? And I rationalize the massive expenditures in time and sorrow (using rationalize in the casual sense this time, natch) by the theory I've heard repeated in at least a couple of places, that the writer must write at least one bad novel. I just figured, why not do it on a grand scale? Why not go all out?
And so here it is, the bloody dead starling I present at the foot of your bed after another night of undignified roistering, my way of saying that I love you very much and I want to make sure you get enough fresh meat. I while I must allow that the prospect of your getting up all unawares one day and stepping right on the disgusting carcass with no shoes on does not fail to excite my sense of empathic regret, you still can't deny that it's a sweet gesture, divorced from the wider context.
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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