According to much notable dogma, it was possible that I was hearing thunder where none existed. Streaks of scarlet light appeared behind me where my vision was restricted. And, for what I am confident are unrelated causes, I was finding it impossible to reach around and pat my own back in reassurance like a chimp. I imagined the scene to be in wide spectral panorama as I squinted just so. In addition, I calculated it was not merely behind me, but a few degrees to the right, though imprecisely, which could technically include the left. Unless that darn anti-matter was acting up again like a spoiled terrible two year old. I would need to veer sharply to avoid that. Any direction would do.
Some days mere cataclysmic pain is more pronounced in its own coded language. Humans along with chimps are the only animals with arms that can span that angled distance behind the back. Why else stand up straight so unnaturally if not to perform stupid pet tricks? Hasn’t pride propelled all the heat we’re enjoying? No sneaky crooked abstraction there. Let the oomph factor fall where it expires.
I did not need to see so-called details any more clearly than that, which is why I had no real need to turn around and make it any easier on myself or others. I have previously observed that too much is more than enough. The big bucket I use to brew brown beer was on the floor begging to be sanitized. Who else was qualified to stoop that low? Bacteria do no messing around once provoked. I got down on my knees in reverence.
I long ago concluded it would help me a whole fucking bunch if I got up off of my knees. But you all know how that pop tune goes. No rhythm leads to no harmony. Melody has no fucking clue what happens next. That’s where the sound machines come in, building bridges to nowhere.
I worked at it hard and fast, enough to know how right I could end up being if there was a way to begin. But, then my back started to hurt from standing up straight for so long, and so awkwardly, and I also fell down a hatch through a tube that smelled like it was used for refried refuse. And I’m not even that tall.
It hurts no less that it’s not only me standing on an edge like a stiff. Gravity not only wrinkles hags and prunes, and pulls out hair and fur, but clogs pipes and bites and plays dirty. I know, though, that’s not where the pain began, if there was any beginning at all. I also know there is no end. From the edge of the cliff, the view keeps going, yet the horizon remains out of reach.
To a good liar, the best lie is any lie that’s believed by any despicable foe. You’d better bet your ass there’s an improved algorithm for that. Victims get what they deserve. Didn’t someone who was officially awful declare that for all times?
I’m pretty positive that’s categorically true. And imperative. I may lie to you but not to me. When I try to play the fool at home, where my antics are so well known and recorded, I resort to saying silently, what the fuck. It’s not a question. Why bother lying to me when I know for a fact? If there is any absolute truth, it is that one size does not fit all.