I’ve been so caught up
trying to devise some strange, alluring proposition; a subversive romanticization of that which is most dismal, most unassuming, most overlooked.I wanted to tell you something scandalous. Revolting. Bewitching. Something to get you to stop and stare and notice my human form, not as it lay bare but bejeweled in some reckless, fantastical adornment.
I wanted to use my words. Big words. So you wouldn’t think of me so small. Words like, pulchritudinous, insouciance, anachronistic, eudaimonia, fissiparous, or splendiferous. Maybe, noctambulant, bacchanalian, lugubrious, or contumacious. Also, arcanum, and recalcitrance, and diaphanous.
I wanted to tell you about the ruddy-faced man and his magic bucktooth grin. About my secret iPod Nano stash. And swallowing the sun.
I wanted to excite you, to rouse you—lest you leave out of boredom or complete indifference.
But I’ve been so caught up!
I’ve been so caught up that I haven’t actually written much of anything at all.
Certainly, nothing of substance as it might concern a thrilling escapade or these bizarre, elusive mentions I speak of. Nothing past a regurgitated message or a trope that’s tired out.
Nothing somber. Or sappy. Or worthy of a laugh.
Nothing to cajole. Or woo. Or tease you ever so.
I have only found my middle finger quite fond of the Delete key. And my ego, a soulless bitch.