#480

An observation, before we begin. Reflecting on the kinds of pressures that conspire to form the kind of writer that I am:

• the intensity of my experiential sensorium
• imagination as uncontrollable and feverish as to be a kind of nightmare, literally a demonic wild horse that lives in the brain, which needs to be tamed and ridden if one is to survive
• slightly overdeveloped and definitely hyperactive language centers
• trauma
• the kind of introversion that suffers at the hands of merely being scrutinized by others, let alone managing interactions and relationships, but also, the kind of extroversion that makes one very interested and invested in people and their doings
• excess of personality comorbid with delusions of grandeur, overcorrected for, constantly resurfacing, with all that entails

Does that make any sense? The above ramifies into the rest of what I make, of course, and how I am able to exist in my body and environment. Data. Love that stuff.

Anyway. Gonna save myself a big chunk of this post for to write tonight. Ezra has guests coming and I know I shall want precisely nothing to do with them even though they are perfectly fine as guests go. Just...well.

It is evergreen to say so; have done so many times under these kinds of circumstances and no doubt shall again.

See above for all required context: I'll be upstairs in my room typing. 

*

But not about Spongebob! Yeah, that has become a lie.

Look. No one can stop me. I am a cackling, demented sorcerer with no regard for human frailty. Your insane thirst to know what I was going to write about Spongebob will have to wait until next post.

Right now I have only one thing to say:

raw dogg fuxxx for cheep or freeee

--JL