Like a ripened watermelon in spandex

My word.

My wordy-word.

My words.

Or, if I can hew the bone of truth and expose the glistening marrow of my empty rhetoric for a second: my lack of words. It’s been a long time. What’s been happening? Yeah, me too. You look good.

No, you do.

Put on a little weight, sure, but it’s sitting well. Like a voluptuous renaissance woman, or well stuffed festive poultry. Just like.

Really.

You’re rubenesque.

Did you hear about Kevin? Yeah, I know. The slut.

I can keep this up all day. I won’t, but the possibility is there. I just thought you should know. It’s good to be abreast of these things. And other things, too. They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing but they would say that, wouldn’t they? Those collective anonymous bastards.

Nevertheless you have to agree, nameless conspirators aside, that there’s a nugget of truth to that particular banality. You have to. Who hasn’t bore witness to (or indeed engaged wholeheartedly in) the ungainly wielding of tidbits o’ fact? Self-assured instant experts ineptly diagnosing the cause of economic depression or the source of your crippling fear of over-weight people in vibrant colours, because, well “I explored the intricacies of currency inflation and girth related hue-terror in my thesis”.

“Well ‘thesis’ is such a broad term, but it was a vigorously probing inquiry into the economics of cheer-squad uniforms and their repercussions on the stock market”.

“…A short pamphlet on John Symond’s Hawaii get-away?”

“I mean sure, I just sat outside a Kmart change room for a while, but I know how to fix the economy. And you. Let me into your house.”

Okay, I got a little carried away there but… God people are pratts. Damn you, people. Damn you all to hell.

On the other hand, deliberately misunderstanding people is just a swell way to pass the time. I can’t wait to be aged. I have no biological imperative to reproduce, the only thing driving my urge to spawn is to later pray upon my off-spring from behind the armours of senility and incontinence, or more importantly a charade thereof. Given that I’m twenty three and already partially deaf and have to squint to read small (or vaguely approaching small) print even with my glasses on there probably wont be too great a need to playact, but regardless of my actual audial acuity you better believe I’ll answer every question, statement or randomly hurled abuse with a bellowed “Whut? Whut! Speak up! Bloody whippersnappers” trailing off with antiquated obscenities, half-remembered curses and vague yet strangely upsetting threats. This is the reason I get up in the morning.