I do now so strongly demand
the immediate and irrevocable enlistment of my own ridicule; collect it in its entirety, put all of it inside, point it to the middle, to the source, to the child-brain which still I unjustifiably nurture-- there is no brilliance here, not in these miserable folds. In passing her by, there thought the fool that I am (and have always been) for moments far too frequent to forgive, that we might share some prospect of intimacy. I had it so clearly laid out in my useless and discombobulated mass of mush, just how to precisely articulate any array of clever and romantic hints-- a deranged sort of fantasy, very plainly the result of my own self-induced social stresses. Yet, even my most earnest of confessions I feel, cannot so easily surpass in gross personal merit the present and most genuine literary admission of an absurd and unusually extended situational oversight: amidst all of the worrying and decrypting, the wondering, deducing, and consideration of just how to properly proceed (if at all proper, indeed!) in the many hours of just sitting there, fancifully gazing forward, taking in her movements and letting her delightful voice saturate my existence, it had not even once occurred to me until this very hour to check for a ring. |
Residuum is an E major, but recently he’s been focusing more on his relative minor. He wakes up at 4:30 every morning to practice remembering things, and he does his very best to look busy and important while fetching groceries. He hasn’t had a legitimate case of the hiccups in over ten years, and he finds it slightly upsetting that some people think his pseudonym rhymes with “vacuum.”
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