T R U T H

The shelf on which we perch our aspirations is made of the shit on the island in Life of Pi, plus a scosh of humility and a coating of gratification. Eager plans for kumbaya interface with WYSIWYG and ba-dum-bum, continue on the same course. I wouldn't choose the xylophone soundtrack in the background but it goes with brain damaged outpourings so deal with it. All these September birthdays infer that January is a great time for fertility. I was most likely a new year's eve product or at least the day after. It emphasizes the point we wouldn't be twerking if the universe weren't working. We all fail to respect our incredible luck being manufactured on the Blue Dot. I can't let a day go by without tipping my hat for Dad's procreation choice back then. Maybe that's where the break emanated from for me to be handed the bundle of everlasting triumph back in '71. Jesus gave us a human figure to place our fragments of God onto and that day in Toms River put it all into perpetuity. Is it getting solipsistic in here or is just me?  Is it possible Jane Austen, effen Jane Austen actually wrote  this straightforward description of her heroine, young Catherine Morland, who at age 15 “began to curl her hair and long for balls"?  It's hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally.