Fortuitous

Sitting wordless with cause to account is to succeed at not scratching at the pitiful, pus filled, scabs of an adolescent varicella infection, only to find that you will still be scarred. Sacrificing relief for the prospect of future gain has rarely proven to be of any virtue. But, hey, it’s the right thing to do.

Arbitrary torment, or to do so arbitrarily? I could L. Ron Hubbard this shit right the fuck now. Then I would be rich and dead at the same time. At least then I’d be rich, dead, and laughing.

I am my own trick fuck.

Temptation to temperance for want of abnegation. I do concur, at a minimum with won of those words. I know what I did right there. Do you? Mine is wrong if yours is right. It is. Like that.

You are chock full of allegory. Tell yourself why. Then tell me. I like a good story. I find that I enjoy bad ones too, so I guess that you’re good. Just be sure to close with a joke with no punch line, unless of course, that’s not you’re style. But it’s never about you now, is it?

Sometimes I hate, but I hate it when I do. Excuse me. I’d like to understand comprehension. Taste is vociferous. Loyalty is (a) relative? Pace may just not be cheap salsa. Perhaps more than your hand needs to be asleep to actually find the stranger.

Abandon

Who am I to say that these words accurately portray the tale I’ve found task to relay? Hand off the baton smartly lest the race be lost, relegated to history as such. Fuckin’ loser. Cry, for you’ve earned the opportunity through botched exchange. Lust not for relief, as victory after the what if’s will remain indefinitely elusive.

Ha, I have deceived you! There is no story to tell. Only one to ultimately understand, if comprehension can be tolerated by id. Faith in words is limited to definition relative to their pupil’s experiences amid. Liberate yourself momentarily from the dictionary app for want to feel real substitute. Participate. Do not fret and you will prove correct.

And so we will agree in the everything that is for want of the banal, enriched in the diversity of newly assumed fact. Submission to the temptation to conform will allow for the trite, a normalcy unspoken as distraught. The thoughts that you fail to transcribe are the adage that can never be written, a success absent indoctrination. Freedom remains confined, because otherwise it is but a word.