[twelve-fifty-eight-a.m]

"...I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle,
Infinitely suffering thing."

I dislike people, generally speaking. Does that make me 'antisocial?' I am reluctant to use such a meaning-designation. It's so very dull and over-used. I prefer anti-sentient-dunderheads, if it's no trouble to remember. Stinking pink bags of flesh who need to feel a belongingness to a large collection of other stinking pink bags of flesh produces in me a feeling of needing to vomit.

I'd be willing to bet that vomiting would somehow offend that large collection of dunderheads.

With all of our big brains and big ideas, you'd think that this blockheaded species [human flesh-bags, like I said] would find something really worth doing. Something really worth talking about. Something really worth...the time it takes for synapses and neurons and thought-processes to do their business in these time-wasting big brains of ours.

I need conversation tonight like a drug. A little chemical insertion to release all these buzzing insects from inside this big brain of mine.

Thinking that I've gone over this before, I am reluctant to restate that I aren't-truth often to people who mean very little, I half-truth as much as called for, and I bluntly-honest to those who register at the pink-poppies-and-thunderstorms end of my adoration spectrum. I, myself, haven't gone through the disappointing annals of poetry I've used to congest the gallery given to me a year ago. How very interesting that someone else should. How very intriguing...and delightful.

"You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted..."

I often wonder about things and topics and ideas with no head nor tail. That is to say, they all run together like muddy snow melting off the tip of a de-gunked iceberg. I cannot -- for the life of me -- recall where one image ended and another began; is this a problem? I am a rambling, long-winded, convoluted, and contradictory sort of story, to be honest. All people are stories. Do their brain-pictures have definite heads and tails? Mine don't. Wait. Is that even a good thing?

I love being convoluted. It makes it easier to surprise myself.

There is lightning storm I'd like to attend. Sizzling together at it's apex sounds so enticing. I'll wait very patiently for a thorny flower all sooty-colored and shining. It's a little known fact that I like flowers. They're rather pretty.

I punched someone in the teeth today. It was very satisfying.

These silly attempts at one-person-discussion have taken some pressure off my big brain tonight. It's a shame no one's paying any sort of attention to me. I need conversation like a drug, you know. "Tying yourself to me...stitch up my emptiness..." I don't have to change unless I feel like being chameleon-face. I'll never switch my skin on you, darling. Please believe me. Stables of people constantly surrounding are like clouds of insects constantly needling, wheedling, biting-and-stinging. It's too silly. I am anti-sentient-dunderheads. I am your i f r a r p u e.

And I am a puzzle piece, too.