Recently, you may recall, I blogged about my lack of having a, coming to, or making a point (There is a little art in that sentence. Cherish it). Unfortunately, or is it irony?, I may have failed to make my point. I know, I know, failure and all that it implies, being associated with a person of keen mental acumen, immense intestinal fortitude, unimaginable character comportment and blinding physical manifestation is akin to associating intelligence to (insert preferred presidential moniker here), an is therefore, unthinkable. And I don’t mean unthinkable like a lispy Molly Brown, I mean unthinkable like, whoa, I just can’t think that! (Ok, focus, MJ, focus!)
I think I was trying to convey why I rarely come to a point. Disturbingly, I appear to be unable to do so in any kind of succinct fashion. Therefore, prepare for incessant verbosity which may or may not lead to a successful and serviceable, though, seemingly, soliloquotious sample of sufficient and satisfying sentences thoughtfully submitted, sincerely, somberly and solely for the significant, sensitive, and solicitous spectators of this sophisticated, sensible, sensational self-script.
(Did you notice soliloquotious? I should get some kind of salary for the number of truly magnificent words that I create. Please pronounce this thusly: SOL lil AH KWOE shush. Or, as you know, face my wrath)
What’s my age again? What’s my age again.
Man, I’m exhausted now. Suffice to say that points are pointy and too many of them will put someone’s eye out.
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