Yes, it is in the wake of deeds from dark places that I waddle. And it’s wet. That’s because it’s (something like) a lake. I think. I look not unlike some drunken and/or sober Won-The-Westerner. I know you know the kind. The only difference being there’s a tremble accompanying this motivating (to write something down) fear. Perhaps that’s why almost all my thoughts begin and end with ellipsis and more than often begin with question marks (plural intended) in front of the ellipsis. And so, It is the fight of all fights that I now believe is coming to an end. The fight to be me or someone else. My only regret at the end of all this will be that I was unable to get hold of the stupidity. Rid myself of it. Begone. Honestly, no one could have known the outcome of this battle – were it to only become a war (inside me) that is readily reported or chronicled (outside of me) while the sun still shines.

I suppose the/my problem is the volume of stupidity, thick and ominous, that has so easily in recent generations overtaken human ingenuity. Seriously. There are empirical studies out there somewhere from (mostly) men who spend their afternoons riding mile upon mile on their bicycles, calling it sport, that have proven this fact. It’s almost as though the future is intended by someone or something to be sweet and juicy, indeed – but stupid. I digress. If only such action w/could be like a short theatrical pause where the masses could gather a thought or two. And who knows what sh/could happen when the right pause arrives.
Even if The Great He has left us alone there is still much to be done. Yet I linger on with the question: How come he left me alone, mommy? And she strokes my youth albeit sweaty palm and forehead and says: Oh our may; Oh our tag: it’s our  Maytag, boy!

Why does no one ever refer to Lucifer as brother? The last of the humanitarian angels, spread-eagled on a mountain of sand having what’s left of s/he’s degenerative scrotum washed by cherubs, giggles at my question. Even though the scrotum is practically gone, his member is so large that even nature cringes at the thought. And that’s probably because Angel members don’t really differ like human members. You know. Our hands and feet look different than…
And so, here I stand or sit, the ground moving below my feet in order to give the muses an impression that they are mobilized as opposed to being dumbfounded at the wonder of the body counting going on as dead humanity is matched to the amount of discharged shell casings produced by the slaves of The Great He’s cherubs. (The ones that are not cleaning remnants of what’s left of Angel scrotum dust.) Digress.

I must get back to the issue of dark places and potentially waddling wakes. Or was it lakes? Nomatter. Yet. A very significant issue since, ultimately, it is the origin of all human – no – my existence. I mean, if there is any attainable perspective here then it must be obvious and, hence, not worth searching out or researching. Why so many of us are afraid of the dark will always astonish me. For it is darkness from which we come and darkness (of the mind) where we live. If that sounds a bit dramatic and even more lame, well, enter the mind of a (worst) movie. It is a place where choices are made. For there is nothing else to do (/be done). Unless.

In comes the feminine. Choices of life, death, favorite color, etc. Yet life has been dished out there, too. One by one, and thrown down a long aluminum tube where rare substances are forced to separate into their most fundamental particles leaving behind a combination of mix and doodoo that enough energy could be derived from it to make us all sick for a zillion half-lives, plus one or two.

The misnomer of light, btw, at the end of the tunnel (or, in this case, tube) can be muted here if only everyone were better equipped mentally for non-intercrural sex, specifically, since you ask: mammary intercourse. Fun. Indeed. But someone how missing the point. Especially when she asks you (the male, that is), either before or after, what she is supposed to get out of the whole thing… I digress.

That this leaves most of us pondering each day the deeds of others e.g. how much money there is to be made and how they make more than (the proverbial) me. We cannot forget the issue of mental capacity and mobility, touch upon at the beginning with use of the metaphorical wake and waddle Won-The-Westerner. For this is the only (metaphorical) example we’ll be able to send out to the aliens once all else has failed (including digression). Sounds easy, enough, eh? It’s all just a small token, stuffed in a box, representing the/a fixation of thumbed animals and their will (or want) of moving around and ridding the males of hair from, at least, their backs.

Logically it is no wonder that so many people go through life as though it were meant to be survived and not lived. The difference between survival and living is equal to ability-mobility. (I just made that word up.) Either that or we’re all fixated on the/a fool-proof methodology of quieting of the feminine to the point of saving all world economies. Which leads me (and who’s with me?) to the question: Where do we go from here? Digress.

And so I. This is part of the war I am ending. Attrition is the main course of any joyous ending. If I continue to fight, survival will eventually get the upper hand and I’ll join some ranks of well-to-do and easily satisfiable, believe the fiction, home-owner. And so II. Who knows, maybe I’ll be privileged enough to rent an automobile. (Accentuation on not using the word “own” in previous sentence. Here it must be noted that, while there are too many who are preoccupied with questioning the Angels, The Great He and their (in)ability to live, there are too few that understand the ramifications of living on credit. But we’ll have to leave that for another post.)

Where was I? Ah, yes. The renting of automated mobility in order that we might all get some relief from chicks. Mechanics and tools and oil to propel metal against itself without annihilating to the point of atomic breakdown, once again leaving behind a particle with a zillion half-lives of poison, is just the right mix for extending the chemical imbalance of puberty well into adulthood. There is, though, the issue of (psychological) acquiescence. Living with even nothing (even-nothing) has been a wonderful outlet for my soul. I only wish there were a precedence that would help guide me with further non-choices to be made.
What about, for example, a case of law where I could find perspective and drink it at the same time. Now there you go. A new brand name for male consumer beverage of choice(s). A case of law. I’m sure somewhere in the dungeons of libraries there are writings about a woman’s choice(s) and some previous civilizations beverage consumption. This is (has to be) the founding principle The Great Maker intended as part of the perpetuate and prosper deal. Again. Digress.

Obviously there is little much to learn here because the choices mentioned really aren’t about what they seem to be about – or the way they are being portrayed. You simply have to decide what that something else is. You know. Break through to the other side. (Who said that?) Take for example, privacy. How have women, compared to the day when we (humanity?) had no doors? You see. They say that the wheel was some great invention. Hogwash, mate! The great invention was the door hinge, followed by the door, followed by the first female of which ever species that walked through it coinciding with a slam.

The point being? They (species) were not warring. Yet she had to seek refuge. So did she design the hinge first? Or the door. We want to think in obvious terms and yet hope that the hinge had to be first. For a door ain’t all that complex. Can you see it with me as the waves overwhelm of the/our lake we/I’m waddling in with our common friend Won-The-Westerner? The equations can go on but the results are the same. She had to find privicy (spelling intended) behind that/a door. After that the wheel was probably invented.

Now we all simply drive around or allow ourselves to be driven around and we never see the connect between washing the scrotum of angels, waddling in lakes with war-mongers and the invention of the wheel being a complete fallacy. History has been turned and kneaded and wriggled, all the while accompanied by a warm welcome of devilish influence. How then can it be that manipulating a woman’s choice, I mean, privacy, can be as abundant as mobility? Again. Digress. And there are so few remaining.

Credit must be given where it’s due. She, woman, has made many more choices then we, men, will ever make. Argue the requirement of such an issue. But do not battle it on the fields already left tarnished and stained. There is a resilience we must not allow to collect dust. It would be such a shame because even after She passes her womb on a shinny plate and her beauty has finally transcribed time, she will always be worth more than a second glance or four. The male psyche must harness this requirement? It must do to it what it has long since done to the horse. Or the frogs that all turn to princes. It is not a wielding power. It is choice(s) upon the blade of a sword that is part of a virtual TV commercial. Together the two are unstoppable. If you wish.

And so III, it must be obvious, if oblivious, that we are just that much more lacking in our choices simply because we don’t practice as much as women should. In turn, this means that it is not up to us to fight Her battles. Let her do that – as she’s always done it anyways. We should just continue building the cars that She wants to ride in. The hinges that she designed to hide her(self). And the angels that she need to preoccupy us. Doesn’t sound like much fun but at the end of the tube full of atomic waste there still has to be some optimistic light?

Come on guys; let’s stop waging war between survival and living, let’s rid our kind (male) of the Won-The-Westerner. Our automations are good enough the way they are unless it’s about her. There’s no shame in recognizing that. Our cosmos is not cumbersome; it’s just a bit overly compacted at the moment. Take it out of our aluminum tube, our hard water lake, and breathe in deep. Doesn’t that feel good? If you’re wondering if you’ll miss the trembling of the wars. Remember, there are some things, very few but at the least there are some things in life that are free. It’s all just behind the labia majora. Don’t worry about the price you’ll pay after that. There is proportional commodity in all things given or taken as long as there’s a receipt. And, if you must, If you like, it is at this point that your war may begin again. But heed this: the lake has been drained; Won-The-Westerner is dead; and digression has become political. For now, once you have given Her back Her privacy (instead of choice) the bond of economic slavery can begin anew.

I digress.