The Foundations

I was sprawled on the blue futon one day when I realized my destiny had to be more cloud-like than jelly-like. To be sure, it was still an amorph, but it couldn't be limited by surface tension. And I didn't want to be the kind of person who was more like a train than a dirigible, more directed by solid rails rather than air currents.

But that's stupid. My neurons are twisted and I've been referred to as odd so many times that I've concluded I was born with a mental deficiency and, because of various social and religious pressures, learned to deal with my environment through some back-door way of thinking.

Meanwhile, I sit cross-ankled in dim light with the voices of revenants swirling in and out of my sinuses. This week has been slightly more foolish than usual, and I think it's because I'm coming off my H.I.S.

And here's this post's purpose, as I was invited to to write this at lunch today: the H.I.S. is the male equivalent of P.M.S. I developed the acronym because men are incapable of menstruation, at least as far as I know. More accurately, men go through a Hormonal Intensity State -- simple, n'est pas?

I don't know how often it occurs, or if its frequency decreases with the sufferer's aging. All I know is I'm not in love with anyone right now, and the very prospect actually revolts me. But it doesn't matter, and this will most likely be the last post that has anything to do with me personally.

Enjoy the stars while you can, because soon they'll all just be smoking bulletholes.