One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and a blank monitor. A glowing, white plastic rectangle of helically arranged liquid crystals ready to form the Mona Lisa but more likely to form the round posteriors of pornographically arranged females. The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo persist as just that proving I'm no writer. Fortunately reduced caloric intake and physical exertion both aerobic and anaerobic will soon render me sexually appealing enough to rope an elderly care taker. That is to say a sugar momma. Misanthropy. Perusing available companions depresses and distances. A rational mind coming first with emotional attachment in a far off last and sentiment disqualified for getting in the way of a good time. I'm no Cyrano de Bergerac. A little closer to six in the morning. Deficiencies in social acceptance are deferred by an obnoxious demeanor. Laugh at the strange man before you realize he isn't kidding. In a world of fit in or fuck off misfits outfit themselves in recognizable uniforms so as to be easily identified as the label of their choice. When the outsiders live in the over-culture where do the wanderers wander? Twenty four hours, two minutes, one hundred twenty seconds to six in the afternoon. Don't forget the accent over the e when you call me cliché.
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