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I'm feral. But only when it matters.

To define myself would be a disservice to the community, seeing as I don't know myself well enough to give any semblance of an apt description. We're all looking out from under or above some neotheistic crystal pool thinking that we can see things, but it seems more like we all know nothing, least of all who we are. I'd like to be on the other side of my own skin, but perhaps that's just a brute retaliation against the life I've known and fail to romanticize as they might. I'm an absurd conglomeration of ideas and failures comprising my qualifiable perceived 'consciousness,' but maybe if you'll entertain the mania and the mood swings we can enjoy each other between bites.

I like a lot of genres, but I hate all things. I can't even begin to try and make sense of that as a topic but suffice it to claim some off-beguiling self-aggrandizing minimalistic ideology. I intellectualize everything I'm supposed to feel, and I typically feel nothing but a numbing pulse of generic irritation ripping through the cathedral between my ribs.

This is the third paragraph since the trinity is of utmost importance and I simply must prevail in my assertion I am the best. Or the worst. Or the somethingest. Maybe I can just be? Nah doesn't seem to bode well w the artifice design of fascination. What the frog-muncher even is 'fascination'? A non-word creeping up inside your pig-skin that curls your toes and let's the idiot inside us all skate on the veracity of vindication that we shouldn't need to identify our thoughts? That's an idiolect for the masses I'm sure, charmed and gutted and let to be splayed out in a glass case, embossed w the words 'Engorged on His Own Bile,' With ownership lasting through the deads of dead, disheartened men, begging we all claim avid attentions towards illusion.