We look like awkward turtle doves making love and it’s truly an ugly sight to see. Incompatible to the highest degree, but has that ever stopped me?
I’ll wiggle my thumbs around until something changes magically, only to wind up on my back... painfully... tragically.
Kill me cockroach style, while my legs flail in the air, they’re throwing shoes at a baby but me no care... one day my wings will finally take me there.
Wherever that it is... I'm more concerned with attempting the absurd, and losing my cool when I can't get the last word. I have plenty of time to swerve, but my brokenness won't let me resist... paranoia, procrastination, and paralysis keep me in the mix. It's so much easier to drown as a narcissist, than to exist as a sociologist. It's not just the path, but the focus, that makes all the difference.
Self-help tastes more selfish to me, so please pass the seafood and cutlery. My shark tales get fishy out of personal bias, plus I leave a lot of bones for my readers to digest. That's why I prefer to drive because my baggage costs the highest.
I scream "Momma Mia" until they slide down the pipe, because if it's one thing I can't stand is a girl who gripes. All my princesses get flowers, the thorny types. But all my princesses got powers, the Bowser type. So it always gets physical, and we always fight.
When my life force is low, I have a few special moves... I'm markedly sarcastic... then accusingly rude... followed by an overwhelming grand gesture to game, set, and match the mood. Then you stop responding and I get unglued.