My mother said, "son, I want you to grow up and be something, something that will make your poor mother proud". "Mother", says me, "I will not grow up and be a zoo, even to satisfy you, for that would be selfish backpatting for you in lieu of a zoo and depravity in my cavity of potential zip zum". My name is Driddleberry Fiddlepoo I think. Maybe I live somewhere. Fish swim.
Discover yourself! You have known before, you have seen with your eyes and smelled and partaken of. I accuse you of wearing a costume and a countenance of a clown and an actor. I accuse you of being in pain, your costume smarts your skin and you scratch until the material is worn through. Here lies your lie! You discard your costume only to wear a new one, a costume with no woolen lining. But I see linings of fleas and ticks and chiggers and yet even greater blood suckers of the naked flesh in your pile of potential costume covering, costume comforting, sweet sugared frostings. Cast them away! Your naked flesh is beautiful only in its nakedness! Have you not grown weary of costumes? Have you not grown weary of ill fitting costumes? Do you fear death from exposure. Do you feel your skin too thin to bear the wear of scorching suns of bitches. Windburn is pleasant if one is the brother to the wind. Pale white naked flesh is of the pale white naked souls and therein lies its ugliness. Your sunburned windburned flesh has been beauty to your eyes. Why have you gone unto the clothes market? Cast them away, these garments and sellers of garments who wish only to cover their own quivering, naked, white souls. They are not your brothers of the flesh! I stand alone and naked, see my pecker, see it get big and hard. See my asshole, see the little bits of shit stuck to the asshole hairs. Aha, so it disgusts you, all the better. The more of you that keel over in disgust from my nakedness the more room I have to dance over your cowering bodies. Let me piss in your bugged out eyes and shit in your gaping mouths. Ah, you are to me an endless stream of privvies, worthy only of my turds. Come, let me shit on you. The turds I have in store for you will make sand grains of the well-wrapped turds you have ever so discreetly sent to my home. Come, don't be shy, I can't see through your clothes, I can only see through your transparent brainpools, your eyes to me are binoculars into your wormeaten braincells. Pity that such holders of binoculars have so little inward spectacles to behold. Alas, I see only little piles of costumes, little indications of your future ideals. Such a sad thing to behold. Look, I give you piles of wretchedness!
I rarely ever listen to what I'm talking about because if I suddenly tune in I realize I can't understand what I'm saying because I missed the first half of the broadcast. It's like suddenly turning your light on and finding yourself in a room full of strange words.
Often when I sit down to pour out my thoughts I check myself short in the