That’s how these things work, got it? You can’t back out. We signed a social contract when you started reading. You tell me if I’m good or bad. Lie if you have to, but lie the right way. I don’t want to make trouble for you, but I will if I have to, goddammit.
Just little crazy ideas. They’re here for you, lined up and calling you, like children trying to impress mother. I can do a backflip. I can do a somersault. I can do a run on sentence, see see see how good my run ons are?! You could put them in a book about the best run ons in the whole, wide world they’re so good like daisies in a field of clover that are like a boulder on a gravel driveway they stand out, they really do!
But this is going to be short, and sweet, and lackadaisical. Because I’m tired, and love you, and don’t pay any attention to the things I do. So good bye to all you who are still looking for meaning trapped here. I’ll warn you, upon trying to grasp the insubstantial, you’ll open your hand to no more than air. Hot air. My breath. My life. In distilled subsense. In arcing postintellect. Forget academia. Fucking forget it. This doesn’t matter. This doesn’t have mass, only volume. I’ve turned it all the way up. These go to [insignificant].