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Mangs, the worst kind of burst has to be when I, for being as ... ... ... as the next shabby gabber, am trumped by the super-nothings of super scribes who insist upon the manic sharebaring of, like, "I just dyed my hair, and isn't Bush a joke?! (crosspost)" and also maybe, "Here's a new fun thing to buy, and it's so weird." It gives me a gut-deep case of The Grims.

I mean, I'm no v. superior solider, but my weak reach rarely o'erextends my (m)aim. To boot, these lost scouts (who bruise language, show me more about their bones than they should), idea-spitshiners, and moody musers fall victim to a beat surrender of the worst kind: a forsaking of the chance to Make New with every single go. Or to at least try.

This is my waylaid acre: a soft square(ish) that's served me well (and made me great friends out of seekers who are big lovers). It has always been (and will be) a dustpan for lunch crumbs. But I'm truthy, and I know what I know. They don't know what they want.

fell on 2006-10-28 at 11:07 a.m.

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