It’s irksome not to belong. Pencil with pens, boys and a girl, good newses and bad.
Hold on. Someone was crucified for that. Maybe fish out of water, steak in a vegetarian’s salad? Both mean death. Grueling, protracted end of life. RIP.
But my big head can’t saddle the pony that is one blissful word like “belong.” Oh no, they’ve never trained me, gave me the reigns and said “ride!” I buckle, and am now upside down by his crotch. Well-endowed stallion.
Ah that ticks the tock: what is this well-endowed business? Oh I don’t belong there. I would love to love it, to awe it, to reverence it as a phenomenal exhibit of nature. But frankly, I think, too close to it, admired as I am, it would be nothing but harm. Big teddy bear sort of scenario. As well-meant as it is, I can’t. At least today. But you’re still cuddly in my imagination.
Right, then. Another dis-belonging. It’s rather unfortunate. I find that in being a something that is someone, and belonging by nature to other someones by a loose appellation of things of a sort that are someones by nature, there is nothing we can talk about but weather. It’s cold in my office. And yes, my hands have atrophied. Feel them, what? They type on their own. Not sure what they’re saying. Don’t really want to.
Using this word is like dis-using this word, against itself. We all know that can’t stand, or would if we sported a beard. I sport a peach. Am a peach, really. Attitude and facial hair, I’m speaking. Low maintenance, perhaps. But there are things to trim. Waistline, oh navel you’re one.
So I suppose, hung by suspenders? Involuntarily circumcised, age 23? Take your pick, but desperate alone, the latter sounds like quite a good time. It’s too bad I’m 25, nearly 26. Perhaps they up the ante with age. Skewer my penis with a metal rod! Oh they do that? Named after a prince? Huh. I’ll pass. Cliché anymore.
You read this and say: inane. Insane. A bit askance. True, all of them. You don’t belong, after all. So get the fuck out. Go!