My hand courses with the unbridled fury of a thousand pain centers firing as one. Even now, overly eager somatic nociceptors are making my foolishness in attempting to hold up 500+ pounds on the tips of my fingers abundantly clear. I shudder to think of what tomfoolery-engendered agony awaits me tomorrow morning; better to type now, while my metacarpals still function somewhat properly.
I often suspect that the sheer overweening weight of my presumptuous prose might cause it to at some incognizable point actually collapse in on itself, rather akin to a sort of black hole of blatant pedagoguery.
Regardless, I'm beginning to feel any chance I had at a cognizable line of thought quickly slipping away, to the detriment of everyone involved. This isn't terribly uncommon; often I'll feel the need to pontificate at length strike suddenly, typically when I'm driving alone across the tangled urban morass of southern Orange County, desolate metropolitan fixtures basked in the radiance of the waxing moon.
Unfortunately, when I finally arrive home and settle down with a warm cup of (admittedly quite effeminate) green tea, any inkling of narrative substance is quickly lost amid a veritable sea of subtly beguiling style and hyperbole. Whatever clear-cut path I had initially intended to forge becomes murky and uncertain, and this account is no exception.
I had initially wanted to discuss my irritating tendency towards alienation, as well as the rising issue of my own inability to resolve the conflicting feelings I have about my upbringing and the life to which I have become accustomed. Instead, I scroll back to find several short paragraphs of empty prose and wonder if in all honesty perhaps this is my own subconscious working, well, subconsciously.