I'm feeling even more stroppy and pain-in-the-assy than usual.
Look out world.
I've seriously been considering trolling a hipster poetry slam open mic night at one or another of the Westport coffee houses, simply for the sole purpose of yanking a few chains.
I've got this “bulletin board” poetry from work, where I made little thumbtack word stickies with my most careful and precise Palmer script, then dumped them in my helmet and fished them out one by one and lined them up in reasonable-length lines on the board and called it neo-dadaist poetry.
Featured words include “obstreperous,” “trombone,” “malodorous,” “pants,” “daffodil,” and “legume,” among others.
I can read out random lines of banged-together words with the sorts of inflections that make it sound conversational and nearly sensible. It's a skill I learned by observing Eric Idle double-talking on the old Monty Python shows. I may have to go out and perform like that.
It's been far too long since I made anyone think I was on drugs.