I'm feelin' about as useful as a ball of yarn tied up tight without scissors to be found. I've just got my butt planted on this chair, bed, couch... whatever. Point is, I haven't so much as twitched for motion since I got home four hours ago. Sure, my fingers just a-dance across this keyboard, but come on.... I once heard someone say that there aren't any muscles in your fingers. If this is true, then I'm working out a grand total of none. (It would explain the constant stress.)
My friends wonder if God exists, if the bulletins on my myspace are any indication. (Don't really know WHAT they indicate, just that I hang with people who have no lives.) Me? I have no doubt that God exists, but that's about as far as my certainty extends. But do you see me badgering people who know no better than I do with incessant chatter about the subject? No. I clam up and I look up, and I hope that my prayers aren't just collecting dust in an unattended inbox. (Though it wouldn't surprise me if this turned out to be the case.)
Well, now that I'm bleedin' out a fraction of my brain's surface workings, I'm still feelin' just as useless. I'm like a chastity belt on a prostitute. Too late and kinda pointless. (Not to mention repping an almost completely obsolete mindset.)
Someone once told me I was funny, but I dismissed their remarks as sarcasm. Me? Amusing? No, I'm much too bookish to make people laugh, too much of your local librarian and not enough of your bold teenage standard. 'Children should be seen, not heard.' Well, I'm never heard, so I'm never seen, so God knows what old time peeps' opinion of me mighta been. But, funny? Nah. The shoe doesn't fit, so why should I cramp my toes in order to wear it?
Maybe I'll get up soon, get off my butt for a little mosso on my musical instrument. That's great.... I'm just transferring my planted derriere from one chair to another, with my fingers still the only things catching air. And the sad part of this whole situation? A part of me doesn't even care.
No comments:
Post a Comment