The Drums of My Inner Shelf

Being a thoughtful account of the human condition as told from the perspective of one suffering from it.

What, if anything at all – though it's not perfect by any means, which in a way proves there's something wrong with it – though you have to take into account my credibility, which, under the best circumstances, doesn't exist – and, if it does, it would be certainly struggling for life on a rocky shore somewhere, and I'd be forced to march along with my gun (which I had to buy specially for the occasion – in any other circumstances I would avoid such harmful devices – no matter how well-polished) and tastefully blast it away, thus ridding me of, oddly enough, the only feature that one could possibly compliment me on (I do hate compliments, you see; you can never tell if they're really being sincere or not); so, in essence, I'm left as a free citizen, with no encroachments on my personal space (everyone usually crosses to the other side of the road when they see me) and, even on the off-chance that I do find my way into a conversation of sorts, the person in question – enacting the other half of the exchange – would be entirely lost for words and would eventually be forced to bid adieu and run amuck with the rest of the folks – you know how it is; I'd then retire to my empty carriage and puff a few notes out of the old trumpet (C, D and E, to be precise) and lapse into beautiful obscurity, is wrong with life?