Most of what I’ve written in the last year (save that which I have written for academic reasons) has been verbal diarrhea. While a thorough cleansing of my literary colon did my chakras a world of good, an itch has since come upon me to write of things less vulgar, for the world presently has more vulgarity than it needs. I actually have specific ideas in mind about what such things would be, which I shan’t reveal just yet.
At this point, I’d like to take a moment to dance on the Twitter grave of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I was never one of his followers, and quite frankly I would’ve sooner nailed both my testicles to a tree than click on that now-defunct follow button. Still, every time somebody I follow posted a cheeky response to one of his tweets (which happened pretty much daily), I would see that menacing glower of a profile pic show up in my feed. You know the one. The sudden absence of that glower most certainly is a beautiful thing. Never have to burn my retinas looking at his cerebral diarrhea ever again, and I’m happier than a pig in shit.
Five and ¾ Senses 