The babblings of a self-righteous surburbian with far too much time on his hands

As I sit outside enjoying the fresh air, smoking my favorite brand of cigarettes (a logical conundrum, considering I am filling my lungs with intoxicating smoke), I ponder upon a multitude of inane, random topics. I gaze upon the infinite abyss (which is a meaningless cliché often used by astronomers attempting to pose as philosophers, or vice versa), I conjure up a list of self-descriptives I do believe will be apt.

I sincerely think my life may be a giant non sequitur. A humorous, completely unrelated joke that really has no consequence, unless there is a sexual reference.

I am the indelicately used portmanteau. I am a literary farce. A grammatical mistake in a hastily written fiction novella.

I am the spastic colon that throbs in your side. Hopefully not literally. A bodily mishap, a malfunction however on an epic scale, a person completely misaligned with the universe.

I am a bevy of metaphors. I am like a faulty VHS tape, an outdated defective artifact from the past, labeled in large ugly blunt font, “Return to Sender”, UPS’ version of the proverbial rejection. It essentially dooms the subject to suffer the same fate as the pixilated Atari version of E.T. ; shoved into a forgotten landfill, quietly, wastefully and gratefully.

I am the anti-type to Fabio; not necessarily a bad thing, I am not a fan of venereal disease.

My writing is the indelible hulk.

For years I have been fixated upon the idea of defining the self. But I suddenly realize in an existential moment;

I'm hungry. And I want a baloney sandwich. What fills your belly affects your brain.

*A quick post script, to all my friends reading this, the opening was written during the summer, and I have long quit smoking.