Everybody’s got their chances. To make something special out of a difficult situation. And while most people are worried which to choose, some specifics are concerned about the run from duck, duck, goose. Logically so, I face myself with tough choices all the time. But what’s tougher is the pride or guilt you have to walk with, knowing that there won’t be a chance in Paradise to please all sides of the conversation. That’s a give-in. No one has to speak that. You’re born knowing the struggle of other folk to be all to familiar. Ce la vie. Perhaps if there is enough fortitude maintained, it won’t turn out as bad as one believes. It’s not a struggle once. It’s a struggle continuously. The sooner you come to terms with the understanding that one person’s lofty Heaven is another’s living Hell, the sooner people affected can respect you for making said decision. It’s annoying, Man. But you deal. Deal with it like they’re supposed to know you can. Because you want the belief in your usefulness to continue, but you can’t truly retain that without a stance of confidence. There’s a strange dissonance when you tell the truth. You think they would be happy you can tell the truth, but in actuality your capacity to have lied and betrayed their trust never even crosses the mind. Harrowing on all levels. Yet you’ll never know, lest you put that earnest ambition out there. It makes me wonder if there’s any outcome where someone isn’t royally peeved off. Oh man. What am I doing right? Why do people still believe in me? Why even try when I know they’re still going to give me another opportunity to thrive? Don’t they know what chances to make wrongs right will twist it all up? I feel for these citizens of the World. If I said it once, I’ll say it once more. It’s not strength I’m concerned about. It’s a lack of restraint. I won’t hold anything back, given that flexibility. It’s the most important thing to maintain sanity most ridiculous in this realm of being. Whether it makes sense to you, I cannot care less. It’s a matter of death or death decided by another person for me. Either way, it all ends sometime inconvenient. But I want to embrace that inconvenience with a smile on my heart, being that I can assume that spontaneity is actually a happily married life in my wife. Can’t totally say that’s vice-versa. Kneel on a Nissan, bought by you and say “you don’t belong.” Are you talking to the window of the Nissan or to yourself in the reflection. What you see through isn’t always what you should be seeing. There’s a rise for every fall and a Fall for every Summer love. I crap-italise the italicised versions of screw you all in my eyes. My perspective is so honeycombed to the tough touch. Can’t handle nostalgia in so many copious dishes. Like the dishwasher I once hashed ashes of joy to be, I can only do one at a time. Any more than that and I’m bound to be cut in a way that still gets me and my unorthodox dorky-naught self a yeast infection of the passionate sort. Soured mouths cower in the face of someone who can be right on the money and also on the connecting wire that plugs the phone into the wall. Stepping that out of place makes all the difference to the dispatch operator. Your hanging up will be reminiscent of a smell her tears gave off when her last boyfriend hung up after she wept a thousand good reasons to stay with her. The Bechdel Test will hunt after me I know. I’m an animal in the most unassuming sense. Which is why you should fear. Because I’m getting damn near to breaking out in a frenzied rash of irrational origin. Handle my organs while I go to the bathroom on the face of mainstream façades. I hope this font can recognise that French lookin’ “Ç.” May I never know how to pronounce that word. For from me may the ugliest misuse of a mouth will ever be heard. Seldom, further more will it be said by any newsreporter who wants to keep their job and their feelings about humanity’s id separated.