It has come to my attention that I am in a very strange state of mind.
Over the last forty eight hours I have written about,
A Demon possessed lust pickle.
A Possessed donut of doom.
Rampaging alphabet-phobic leprechauns
A sci Fi story about space pirates.
An essay on Biblical theology.
An essay on flying monkeys.
Made and posted political memes featuring demons, vampires, werewolves .
A small quantity of quality Weerd strange memes.
And, a variety of esoterica and comments.
Somewhere in there I was insulted by a math challenged flat earther and insulted a Substack pseudo Nazi. ( Either could have been feds. Either way I was vaguely amused.)
Now, I am pretty sure it was me.
My pants were present and witnessed the debacle.
There was no one else in my pants other than me. There is only enough room in my pants for me, there is no room to hide anyone else in my pants.
Which means.
I have no idea what it means.
I forgot my purpose in writing this.
I think I need more coffee.
Maybe I need to switch to Kilts?
Why do I only have one sock now?
How do I characterize my writing?
What genre am I?
Do I have Genre Dysphoria?
Am I TransGenre?
I am sooo confused.
Ah, I am having a giggle fit. YES, you should switch to kilts. The world needs more kilts. And the one sock thing, that is how I live my life. One shoe or one sock. No lie. It's usually inexplicable. You are killing me. HAHahaha.
When your socks all leave in quantum confusion, and your bridled in a kilt on Brighton Pier, there's only your packed lunch that gives sturdiness in the semblance of obscurity 😂.
It's the Grand solar powered
"Cyber Toss"!
The ginger fruit salad of digital life, that marinades in the shadowing powers of reduction, conjuring the masonic knowledge selection into delectible de fleured or'derves 🤣.