The man in the back of mag said you can't have settle without seattle

Women of the world, unite. Your cleavage and my scar tissue are not indivisible, and my suggestion to the contrary was duplicitous at best, and disdain-cultivating at worst. I cannot claim to be unfettered. Your novels and novelty are more than becoming, they’re being. I am not immune to their potency. My monkeys sit at their typewriters in envy, green as can be. Amateurs at best, they sift through their ungulate ontology to make mince meat of amalgamated idioms and linguistic games. Your opposable thumbs and intricate sexual plumbing makes me blush, not to mention my monkeys, who are left lying in your wake with metacarpals suspended over keys, having everything to say but nothing to say it with. With which to say it. Indeed. A thousand monkeys perched over typewriters, wondering where to find the next banana.
I certainly don’t want to talk about it. Foucault taught us that the urge to talk is itself constitutive of the disciplinary matrix of which talk is the purported solution. I am being unduly facetious. But you women – you girls – you ladies – leave me flummoxed. I am not through banging my head up against the wall, but I sure wish I was. Wish I were, as it were.
Of course this has nothing to do with females, nothing to do with the constitutive gaze. It is simply a struggle to articulate the sense in which I wish I didn’t see preemptive strikes as honorable, in view of my propensity to drag you through the proverbial quagmire. You not being you but she. Of course of course of a horse.
Am I going bald? No. Do I need Cialis? No. Am I grasping at straws? Perhaps, if metaphors are anything to blanch at. Rather than pontificate on the overarching constellation around which I group my monkeys, I would prefer to sit here with one beer all ponderous-like. I would prefer to take it off the first hop, check the runner, and snap it over to first – softballs of course carry within them a different density, and therefore a different chronology, so the time I have to meditate on the prohibitive effects of having time to make decisions dissolves like sugar in water – SAFE! Which makes one want to swear loudly. Stegner, here, is the apposite source:

Words are not obscene: naming things is a legitimate verbal act. And “frank” does not mean “vulgar,” any more than “improper” means “dirty.” Under the right circumstances, any word is proper. But when any sort of word, especially a word hitherto taboo and therefore noticeable, is scattered across a page like chocolate chips through a tollhouse cookie, a real impropriety occurs. The sin is not the use of an “obscene” word; it is the use of a loaded word in the wrong place or in the wrong quantity. It is the sin of false emphasis, which is not a moral but a literary lapse, related to sentimentality.

Are you like me? Did you like the “hitherto taboo” combination, and cringe at the cookie simile? Anyway, I stand accused.
I should call in sick tomorrow. My work can wait. My blue shirt is clean, my white shirt is clean, I don’t have a tie and don’t need one [this being written when I was elsewhere employed, although the tie is still thoroughly optional]. My gray sweatshirt with grease stains will be called upon to serve if service is the correct analogy upon which to build some kind of something.
Back to you girl, you who has no chance of ever hearing what I have to say, for I work behind the scenes, in veiled nudges like most of us who are too interested in being articulate to be understood. I am as a balloon past the inflation point armed with a sixteen year old’s belief in inveterate invincibility, and I’m sorry I made you cry. Truly I am. I wish the mirrors cast shadows, not verity. I apologize so much I hope to bludgeon myself into good graces. This comes with the caveat that I am having a conversation with my historical self, and not anyone whose heart is still palpating with emotions related to softball.

*****
In other news, is tomorrow really only Wednesday? Big speculation on the future and another ill-slept night await me. I leave you with the empirically supported assertion that the gods of wishes are trying to tell me something. Last night, I came awake from an almost-sleep state to stare at a clock which read – 11:11. This is, by conservative estimate, the fifth time in the past month I have come awake at this time and felt the need to make penance by conjuring up an ideal future state. I will not reveal my wishes for obvious reasons; hopefully, revealing the circumstances that have occasioned wish-making will not adversely affect the chance that past wishes will eventually come true. Then again, how many times have you found yourself unable to countenance a situation that you spent innumerable moments trying to bring to fruition? I promise the speciousness will not last.