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I am not different. Uniqueness isn’t something to be proud of. You could sit around all day, smoking dope, eating churros, and dancing on your couch, being unique, but I won’t like you any more, or any less. I am not substantial. I alternate hands when eating, but does anyone care? “I think not,� Mr. Barnaby, the imaginary man in my attic, says. I twiddle my thumbs when I am bored, for good reason; thumb twiddling is the most vigorous finger-moving activity. I hit the spell check button frequently, regardless of how many or how few red and green squiggles fill the page. I endlessly squabble about my feeble existence. My skin remains pale. The sun is out to get you, just ask the telemarketer, he or she knows all about it. I am wondering if I should think about starting a new paragraph. Looking out of context, my English teacher once told me to start a new paragraph with each new idea, but ideas flow out of my mind a thousand RPMs, to dumb it down for you. Stone’s throw, stone throws, it doesn’t matter; I judge my own vocabulary. Eggs? Scrambled, please. Am I sounding like an Alexandria to you? Because, if I am, you’ll find that I am batting a thousand. Sam, I am, not. I live where the sidewalk ends. I sit here and listen to Sufjan Stevens. I listen in a sad attempt to gain knowledge from the gift of music, but, in doing so, will just end up setting on my sycophantic backside for the remainder of the evening. I follow the leader, but the leader follows me; I follow myself. My hands smell like takeout and mayonnaise cake, both of which I have indulged in the past half an hour. *pause* The time in which it took you to pause was time enough to go to the bathroom and wash my hands. They are now free of the interesting combination, and now smell like freshwater cucumber. I’d prefer saltwater taffy over freshwater cucumber any day. On the matter of hygiene, my left arm never smells clean. Hours of scrubbing leave it smelling like nothing but a bald arm. I wish it would follow suit of my right arm, which does nothing but smell like our generic body wash. I own 6 pairs of jeans. In an idealistic world where days are the same, unfluctuating temperature, I would open a Pandora’s Box of problems if I tried to wear a different pair of jeans every day. Upon review, I really want to omit this paragraph, but, upon review of the review, I am going to leave it in to keep the reader guessing. I formulate hypotheses from the ether and calculate infinity four-fifths in which it takes to name all of the continents of the world…I do this all the time instead of water coloring. A fly just flew past my face. I want to obliterate it from the world, but I don’t feel like playing God…today; typecasts are a thing of the past. I use words rarely understood by the human populous, rarely understood by myself, as well. My gas tank remains three-quarters empty, twenty-five cents full, seventy dollars in debt. My wallet is covered in stickers. The stickers support an organization called PETA; I ate McDonalds for lunch. I am the walking contradiction. I overuse the ellipsis; underuse the word ‘done’. I brush my teeth before meals, and floss before a dentist visit. I am the walking contradiction. I am also the walking repetition. Archeologists…they’ll date any old thing; I’ll fiddle around on any old roof. Your substance abuse doesn’t interest me, sailor. I’ll shamwow your ass so fast you won’t know what hit you. Oh wait; it’s just me…Billy Mays, that’s what hit you. Or was it the cocaine? I forget. Sobriety is my drink of choice. I only bang the drums, and smoke candy cigarettes. I am the poster child for the right choice…except I have a tendency of yelling obscenities…SHIT! That makes me look sophomoric, doesn’t it? Omission? Doubtful. My life is like the epic battle between Smarties and Dum-Dums: Which choice is the right choice? Which choice is the wrong choice? Is there a choice? Which do I pick? Do or do not, there is no try? The multitude of questions in this paragraph makes me nauseous. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing—who doesn’t like the chalk taste of Tums, anyways? I consider giving the proud reader of this historical document diplomatic immunity when I become overlord of the Earth, but question the credibility the Internet. Nobody likes totalitarians anyways. The Animal Collective belts out of my cheap-o speakers; the clock reads 12:45; it might as well be reading the past. |
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