Somehow I expected toppling buildings and distressed damsels. But here we are, reemerging as though from a short sabbatical. And here I am talking without the excessive clog of faux cryptitis. Perhaps I no longer need to disguise the fact that there is nothing beneath the surface.
I am the faulty leg, to be sure, but I'll try and hold up as long as I can and keep this second coming* from the toilet seat. Hopefully there's enough womb for us all.
Like the man with the "We All Die At Noon" sign around his neck, I have a healthy amount of egg on my face. Luckily this time it wasn't expelled by a business man negotiating unsuccessfully with his innards on a bus filled with school kids. When you've caught your breath, I'll move on.
The tall and the short of it (if you know me, you'll take the latter option) is that I'm prying my fingers back into working order and letting the buggers run free in a meadow somewhere. Excuse me if I don't acknowledge the cackle of diplomatic applause. Presumptuous, I know. Hoot hoot baby.
Roll your eyes and smoke 'em while we're here. I want to get it over with before hand. Now I plunge into the depth of my wallet to get a few coins off the loan-moths, which I will try to fashion into a crisp Venetian ticket. Goodbye my juvenile spatulas. I'm off to the weep of a violin.
Cheerio.
*© William Butler Yeats and Ben, 1921 and 2003, respectively.
Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
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The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
1 comment:
And perhaps I should have researched the meaning of Cryptitus a bit more carefully.
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