{Brat(ty)} Equals [Me(me)]

imagine the insertion of a sub-textual element right about here

Well this is awkward.

Feel the burn? Everything burns.

Already, calm down. This outburst will take a turn; in other words, it’s not going where you think it is. It’s old news. Like me, maybe you’re being jerked around. I’ve been asked repeatedly to weigh in here, and compliance seems easier than maintaining continuance of resistance. You know the full-blooded human woman called Thierry; assuming I’m not making her up, which—how would you know? She can be persistent in her relentless insistence. Looky there—I can make rhymes, too. Yippee. Words can be fun (even in silence)! Indeed, at times, when she’s neither talking nor even looking my way, I can feel her staring at holes through me.

And I’ve known her (ass) for (like) a week.

Furthermore, unless she inadvertently mooned me across time seven years ago whilst I found myself entrenched in a period of zombie/survival mode, I’ve not seen the ass in question being questioned.

I’m just kinda guessing at this strikethrough crap. Don’t get me wrong; obviously I get it—but I don’t know where he sources the energy that must be required to bear solely the global burden of linguistically elevating human life’s potential.

Honestly, {not un}like you, I didn’t get smart until he made me wiser. And then there’s Thierry, this lightning rod, making him do things. It’s weird. We endured 40 years of separation. I don’t fully understand (it all) yet, but I know he’s right. I hate his mindful body so much that I love his soul. I’m straight, by the way. “Straight” could mean a lot of things. “An arrow ain’t got nothin’ on me,” some kind of clever goon might joke. But I would not. I’d never do that.

Do you know me yet? I guess you do. You must. This is #bullshit. I’m being earnest.

I know.

I know.

Intentionally misplaced disclaimer: if you find something encased by any three of the widely known parenthetical bracket designs, I might not have put it there. I don’t fully understand “your boy’s” optimistic code—in an ironic twist that might make your butthole pucker, {perhaps} no one ever will—and I’m not yet convinced that she truly gets it, either. They could also be editing reasonably made grammatical decisions against my will. I’m being filtered into you. How much, though?

We may might never know.

They won’t give me anything to go on for this, my toe-dip into the world of blogging, so what you see/read is what you’re getting. I’m trusting your hero. I’m sure there’s a reason I’m assembling all these fucking letters.

Preferably I aim down battle-tested, iron sights while considering a fluid variety of stiff factors. For this pointless nonsense, I’m hammer-slapping/hip-firing.

Brace yourself—I need to remove something from (inside) my chest. This is a kind of metaphor, and it’s also kinda not.

So this might (not) come as a surprise, but I’m not “good” at everything. You don’t meet the familiarity requirement (with me) that precedes the arrival at any reliably forgone conclusions. Off that point, ARK sucks, and I don’t know TNT well enough to put together an opinion (about her) just yet. But the first sentence in this “block” stands tall. Let’s derail on purpose, wanna? I don’t care; it’s happening anyway. In the name of reinforcing factual admission, consider this: I really suck at blowing my nose. I’m absolutely awful at it.

I lied. It’s worse: I’m inept.

I hope you’re happy.

Put me in a nose-blowing contest—thanks, you sadistic terrorist—I just secured last place (and a year {or seven} of recurring nightmares) through imaginary participation in your delightfully diabolical scheme. I expect a big trophy, and it better be a little shiny.

Language is dumb (on its own), but people, you all can inflect colorizing emotion upon a black-and-white canvas. You must (not) fully comprehend your power. You should start.

Where were we?

Oh. Right. Of course.

How does a mere mortal manage to mind-control the muscular elegance that must be required to nose-burst (at nigh gale-force gusts) an unwelcome mucus surplus with a degree of precision sufficient to capture the bulk of your oozy emission in its thick, slimy entirety?

Want me to stare at you? Blow your nose in public. Sorry, I can’t look away! And it’s not because I think you’re doing anything wrong. It’s more like, “Dang, look at you go.”

And maybe—having labeled myself as “anatomically unable to wield” the mastery of physics required to confidently perform the technique which intentionally propels your viscous green expulsion—I can’t divert my eyes (when someone nails it) because I’m waiting to see a mistake.

Because I don’t get it.

Because when I blow my own nose [usually about 5 times a year], I prefer to be behind at least 3 locked doors, and it’s nice if (at least) one is dead-bolted.

Also don’t listen, Nosy (Butt).

And go away. So, so far away. Seriously. Piss way the hell off. Preferably, just to be cautious, please maintain {at minimum} a one-mile radius.

And then dive-bomb me.

And then get handled.

I still don’t know; who does?

Furthermore, when I do attempt the remotely proper execution of this grossly underappreciated skill, rest assured, no more than half my chaotically spurted snot will end up stuck in/to its intended catcher [typically traditional tissue].

The remainder gets split between the wall(s), at least one of my elbows, behind either ear, the ceiling in the next room {somehow}, back up my nasal passages, and/or, worst case, inside my mouth.

Ick. I think I just talked myself into retirement from nose-blowing if that’s possible.

Wait.

Unless a shower is involved.

Yeah, a heated shower would have to be my safe space for discharge-minded nostril-flexing. Under such conditions, I’m basically an expert. What a waste of hot water, of thick steam, of pure energy.

Once, I’m sure I had a point of origin here, but now I seem to have misplaced it. It’s probably wherever my long-lost marbles are rolling around/down the big hungry drain with every other loony tune that ever synced up.

Read it and (don’t) weep: I might advertise a rudimentary understanding of some strange things—and, in an often very annoyingly obvious twist, I’m never wrong when I’m right—but I’m damn godawful at some pretty basic life-stuff.

Existence: wired to be weird since the sparking jump.

Listen to your savior.

Find salvation.

-(-) v +

i.e. same = same