Welcome my bouts of anger.
It's back and it's sharper than ever. Like aged scotch and its wisdom. A still, collected anger rooted from very particular and unidentified strings of shared sentences. Of words I deject the sounds of. Of verifications I'd rather deny. This is as difficult for me as I am in whole. With an overwhelming pile of shit to trip about, I set off at the most pathetic ones.
Welcome my bouts of prevarications.
I can't play cards well. I can't play bull shit well. If cards were humans and the numbers were thoughts and the suits were expressions, then I'd be the one with the least cards and the least intoxicated. You should see how pleased I get when I encounter someone who plays the role in bullshitting as committedly as I do. It's my favorite game. I can barely even introduce myself with my correct name without having the urge to blurt some other. It's easier to make eye contact as somebody else.
Welcome my bouts of anxiety.
I'd never been one to perspire profusely. Some things change. And some things never change. I can't tell where I am.
