(This is free writing. I don't get to stop to think. I just write down my stream of consciousness. I wanted to see how it would turn out since I'm ridiculously overtired. You get to see. Whoopee.)

We can have some saccharine romance if you like to dance.

I'll lead.

Put that down.

Chuck it.

You don't need it.

Throw it through a window and let it break. Creation through destruction. You've created a scintillating shower of glass.

A blizzard that cuts.

Pure as the cold, driven snow.

I like the image.

Everything's flat. Like the Narrator says in Fight Club. When you can't sleep everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.

Nothing's special anymore.

One of my friends used that as his slogan. It was such a long time ago. I haven't seen him in four years. It's more like something that came from dream that came from someone else who was only in a movie. The old me, a ghost.

Wasn't that clever? That illustrates one facet of how my mind works. It sees the oddest of interactions. I can't really explain it better than that.

It might not even make sense to me when I read it tomorrow morning.

Don't go envying me. I envy you. Well, the odds are I envy you.

I'd really rather be just about anyone else.

As long as you're not butt ugly.

As long as you're not three hundred pounds.

As long as you're not profoundly retarded.

And please, no Republicans.

One person I wouldn't want to be is my stepmother. Her entire being is just pure bitterness.

I could see myself ending up like that, except I have one thing on her.

I'm actually smart and creative.

And you know what that gets you?

It gets you a fucking headache, and it makes it so you can't relate to people.

Well, not for everyone. Just everyone who's the same flavor I am. Synesthesia?

It's always been a fantasy of mine to be able to really feel what it's like to be someone else. I think everybody lives in a different world, based on their perceptions and thought patterns. I think that we can't possibly comprehend what it's like to exist in someone else's skin and mind.

Because it's so alien.

But I can guess.

I can guess and I think I like where most of you are more than where I am.

Maybe you function better.

Maybe you gave up.

Maybe I gave up.

Maybe I don't really want to know

How your garden grows

I just want to fly

Jerks.

At the end all I can say is hardy har har and brain myself with a cinder block.

Somewhere, a little kid is smiling at this slapstick.