A Passing Phase?

Well, I’m having a really tough day. Apart from contemplating the inevitability of geriatric redundancy, complacency triggered by too much citrus in my tacos and an overdose of Vanilla coke, I seem to be cracking my knuckles endlessly. Such patriarchal characteristics are seldom seen in city slickers and downtown infesters who spend endless evenings hanging around happy hour counters scribbling down phone numbers on paper napkins and swearing by the ability of Tylenols to rid one of the miseries of aftertastes from water coolers. I have been otherwise categorized as the one who heads home, tosses vegetables into a wok and slow dances to commercial jingles while contemplating the next move in my plot to unearth the secrets of paper cups. Yeah, right. The jargon in my head spins around like those giant brushes you find at drive in car washes, except that the process in my head doesn’t have the benefit of detergent.

It’s been two months since I bitched about on my blog. Writing to me is a form of release akin to characteristics seen in sharks that chew with their mouths open. It either manifests in carnage or reveals itself in the most poetic fashion worthy of a Booker prize. At least I choose to believe so. You may nod your head in disbelief, but that is because your disposition presupposes that I am not as good as I think I am. Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. My process was two steps ahead and undergoing metamorphosis while you were staring at the apple fritter and experiencing your throat bib like a smoothie in an uncovered mixer. Yeah, that time.

So, here are some moments of reflection, a gist of the contemplation that I had inside my head questioning my writing skills if I do possess them, metaphorically speaking....