Between doses of sarcasm. Or that epic, just-peed feeling
There are times that I would wish, with all my heart and all my faith.
I would wish that I could finish a sentence without squeezing in a word or two tinged with sarcasm.
I would wish that, despite the mockery of ever-present neurotic neurons, a single line of thought would see itself to the end without going into tangents pretending to be parallels.
I would wish that apples would remain apples though oranges may frolic like a grape in heat.
I would wish that metaphors, though one of the basic foundations of peace, would consign themselves to the bowels of my large intestine. The bowels of my bowels so to speak.
I would wish that prepositions stop insisting to take that coveted position at every sentence’s end. Just as dangling participles pick themselves up and stop dangling for the sake of all danglingness in the world.
I would wish that keyboards would stop making that clicking sound, and that they stop presuming that I tap them because I’m in love with them.
I would wish that jetties and harbours, though picturesque, be more unquaintlike in their quaintness.
I would wish that every qualitative aspect in every defective conversation be more quantitative in its quest to be objective.
And above all, there are times I would wish that I could find a way to recreate that epic feeling of well-being after peeing.
Enough said. Back to reality then. Back to wishing she’s here with me right now.