I discovered I was becoming too unnaturally aware in recent days, like duh, as I am sure you and yours were as well, that the axis had begun to spin at an oddly suspicious tilt. All I had to do was preemptively turn my head before coughing and rampant erections remained visible at an all time high. Tops were being popped in many of the usual out of the way places. Buildings, babies, yardsticks, monuments, tubes, screens, dildos, doodads.
It felt a little as if a massive linebacker was hurtling at me full speed. Fortunately, he became unhinged just short of my big pink toe. His stagnant load smelled familiar to me, though, undeniably vast and supple. A pall of elastic smoke descended from a maelstrom cloaked in spandex. Deep breathing was typically shallow. That much, at least, made its own good common sense. Unless that was poly-vinyl. Speed was variable, angular, fleeting.
What if down escalators start to go chronically up and you’re caught in the middle? What if you are exposed in see-through panties and have everything to hide? What if that glow from the murk is as edifying as it gets? Why do all the final answers arrive formatted as questions? Which way do you turn when all of the hot shit face cards end up in the side pocket of the crooked dealer?
Keep going, right? One way only, no loitering. Is and always is. Semper fi. Bulls-eye, dead ahead.
It used to be acknowledged, like fucking duh, that any dynamo imbued with evolving matter occurs at only one speed, slow, as it eternally has, will, and must be, with plenty of time to look around and sit for a spell in contemplation of the immortality that is craved, just as it used to be understood that spit is the ultimate cleansing agent to wipe away dirty thoughts inside of shallow mines fixated on raw gold. Do you think lubrication grows on trees down that deep?
But, no longer.
Now, experts deign to take away debris for a fee, manage thoughts, fix odds, pump blood, inflate heads, shrink heads, spread manure, handle payoffs, carve meat, and shovel sludge at epic-cutting-edge speed. No more unsightly sweating to endure causing tedious stains. If you’re able to stay awake and pay attention you may pass/go to school/jail and stand in line and get it where the getting is good. You know how it feels every time you bend over. Why ask why? Because they can, that’s why. Furthermore, that’s not only why, but why not. All for you, and me too. Keep your noggin on straight and thank your neighborhood deity with a load of greasy alms for the bounty of air-conditioning professionals working on behalf of your side of the bed as you snore. Where do you think all the sweat went? No harm, no foul. That leaves you out. You never had it so fucking delightful.
The continually emergent literature compiled in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition, Text Revision,(DSM-IV-TR), proves the point once and for all until the next time, which verifies there is no need to become excitable over nagging details.
Does in fact a continual mass expand at a gluttonous rate? Are you fucked up the wazoo for nefarious cause or causes lurking behind a curtain? Do you employ the most highly efficient way to wipe that’s optimally best for you? Or do I?
I’m so grateful that the hereditary spawn of my loins, the dynamic teen twins, formerly the transitional tween twins, will never have to suffer the uselessly counterproductive angst once celebrated as a valuable learning experience, sort of, by unemployable artists without grants, slouching idlers with no posses, doofus doodlers with no cash, and other serially impotent loony tunes from the archaic past before evolution ended and the infallible rule of the Internet demonstrated how to employ highly skilled opposable thumbs, who wallowed in a battlefield fraught with tic disorders, elimination disorders, histrionic personality disorders, avoidant personality disorders, and narcissistic personality disorders. How many chronic feelings of emptiness and transient stress-related paranoias were simply due to a perennial borderline personality disorder? Like, duh. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to get rid of that stinky bug up the ass?
No matter what or how, though, it’s important to note that none of it ever occurred through any anachronistic fault of your own. Me, too. I’m glad, too. Why in the glorious name of puffed up heaven above worry any pretty little heads unduly? How sadly judgmental. Causes come, go, bend in nearly any disappointing breeze. How can forces like that ever be withstood? Standing in the rain when the light dims is clearly a seasonal affect disorder caused by nasty monthly periods that are not politely discussed in public toilets, even when commonly misdiagnosed as an avoidance issue due to regrettable stresses. You are lucky to be chosen a bystander, exercising no will for which you are liable. Keep at it, filling up. Meat, potatoes, and petroleum products rule. Borderline personality leakage for which culpability must be denied is easy to neuter when hemmed in with needles and threads right from the first rupture. No biggie. Excessive bloat reacts positively to salve. Otherwise, employment figures would surely plunge. DNA evidence proves that much conclusively. Sort of.
Until the hyperloop taxi from SpaceX arrives to take me away to Mars, I feel compelled to stay incognito and stick obsessively to my britches for which I have always been too big. The scourge of stinky tight pants may be a symptom of a disorder yet to be revealed. I would do the same if I were you, too.