To paraphrase (with poetic license) a now much-forgotten thinker:

"You have nothing to lose but your chains.  And you have a world to win."

As a youth, I thoroughly despised that thinker. And I attempted to crush his every claim with the weapon of my sharp and witty intellect.   But now I find that my poetically-licensed paraphase from the end of his manifesto - if taken out of its old and discredited political context and applied solely to my current personal context - rings most elegantly true.

Ponder the sound of one hand clapping celebrating the occasion of one link snapping.

Over the last 9 months, I have downgraded my blogging from a rage of ever-manic prance and prowl - of outrageous and intrepid poetic burstforths - to pretty much just droll plebian utterances.   And I have noticed that you have noticed by not taking much notice.  You see, I have intentionally slipped and slided away, so that you won't miss me when I'm gone.  And by the response lately, I judge that my strategy has, indeed, been masterful. 

How fascinating it has been to mix into this (our) Oblivion (yes, the oblivious shall inherit post-doomsday, and post-doomsday shall inherit the fruit on that other tree: the hyper-visonary, meta-eroticized, extra-insalivating, delve-into-the-post-deluvian-deluge {why didn't Eve wait until sunrise when the sighting for plucking would have been better?} Permitted Fruit.

I love you all.

Will see ya in that other Dreamland - the land of numinously non-evanescent, refreshingly effervescent, unimaginably everlasting, yet undeniably evershining Golden Eternities.  

Ready or not.  Here I go.

Happy galactic fortune-hunting to all of you.

And thanks for all the fish.

I have tried for many years to get into trouble.  Big-time-go-ahead-and-fuck-me trouble.

But fuck my silver-wish-upon-a-supernova spoon.

I have tried so fucking hard, harder than I even ever ran a marathon or the equivalent challenge up and down the glacial uplifts of Dreamland for hours and hours in 100 degree Fahrenheit heat.

But did I ever get into trouble?  Despite how hard I tried?

Fuck no.

And why not?

I don't expect you to know, so I'll provide you the answer to which I'm most privy and others are to various degrees ambivalently party:  The powers abounding have kept me out of trouble. Every incredibly unexcusable time.  I should have been hammered at, and busted, and institutionalized at least a hundred times absolutely and another hundred times on mere, but warranted, suspicion.  But I  always, always, always got excused, exonerated, overlooked, passed-over, another-chanced.  

Why? 

Because.  Because they (the powers deservingly devious and delirious and destiny-protecting yet obscure and ubiquitously abounding) expect me to lead. 

Lead?   E Pb unum?

Leeeaaaad.  And soon.   Us (me, too, and et. al...) intrepidly out of this involute conundrum of America...going...going...gone. 

What an insane expectation.  Really.  But regardless.

And  lead how?

If I told you,  you'd have to kill me.

Oh, yes, and by the way, I'm incredibly well-off.  Haven't always been so - only for the last 24 years.  Unimaginably wealthy.  In possession of treasures beyond estimation.

The above declaration is irrepressibly true.  However, it's  truth value hinges critically on what standard you use to measure wealth. 

Do you remember that one brief shining moment of bliss in your life?
(What do you mean "which one"?  You've had more than one ??)
Hey, but if you can't, don't fret. 
Better days are yet
(pre-eternity)
to come.

I promise.

Blogging every-driven-unavoidable day is just fine? 

Anyone who blog's less than that is blog-dispossessed? 

Blog-bondage, anyone?

Bondage?  Bondage of any sort?  Even sexual (which I've never experienced) ? 

No thank you.

I'd rather be free.

I'd rather be me.

You can court calamity to avoid disaster. 

Or you can ride the roller coaster at the amusement park.

Which choose you?