Damn the Man.

I've never nor will I ever play with various writing styles on my blog.  I've invented some, tortured others, seduced a couple, teased many, succumbed to one.  But play?  No, I do not play with words or their styling.  The matter is much too serious.

Words are like little kisses that I trail up along a hot bitch's reddening thigh.  She thinks the kisses are for her—but they are not.  Nor are they for me, that is, primarily for my own satisfaction.  Rather, they are word-kisses  born in-and-for-themselves—parasitical little bastards using both her and me for their own maniacal self-exhibition.  Like a virus uses a host to thrive, so these word-kisses use my lips and her thighs to find their own meaning, their own life.  So, in this analogy, the bitch is the blog and my styled words inch ever toward her cauldron core of passion.  And when it really gets good, the voyeur props amass as I'm just about to fixate orally orgasmic with a flurry of hot-tongued, lashing noospheric nibbles upon the numinousity of my seething bitch-blog beauty.

O, don't ever play with words or their styling, my friend.  And remember: only you can prevent forest fires.