The Breakup

In my experience, when your significant other says something along the lines of  "It's not you, it's me", it means that the relationship is over. Gone with the wind, so to speak.

It also comes to my attention that the human heart involuntarily races during the time immediately following those dreaded words. Breathing becomes hitched, tear ducts begin to excrete a salty substance, and one tunes out most of what is going on around them. Even if the breakup isn't official at that point, "It's not you, it's me" pretty much seals the deal.

Ah, the unforgiving nature of a relationship. Fluxuating feelings of  insecure and emotionally perturbed beings jeopardize the success of happy and doubtless involvement with others of the same species. Emotion, playing a large role in the success of said involvement, quickly takes over human logic during a breakup. Intelligent thoughts escape even the most experienced of humanity, and thus results in use of an overused cliché.

Goodness knows the vulnerability of the fragile human race; yet time will heal all wounds.

"Curses!!"

Why is it that whenever someone yells something like "curseeees!!" or "I'll get youuuuuu!", they shake their fist at the sky with unrelenting fervor?

Upon learning of my own viral sickness, I proceeded to yell and shake my clenched hand upward. I then realized that it is only through modern society and severe cliché that I ever learned such an action. Why upward, towards heaven? Are we blaming God for our own failure, or are we just attempting to create a telepathic communication with the problem without shaking our fist directly outward, and possibly offending a passerby?

I have thought of many a possible reason, and have concluded to reform my own actions. I will now shake my fist at the source of my grievances: The demonic entities that elicit my sickness, aka my own inability to stay healthy.

Establishment

w e l c o m e
as it should be said.
The more I think about this blog thing, the more I want to just toss it over my shoulder like a jacket and carry it with me. That's funny. Funny, as in ironic. I'm writing this post to no one but myself. I can say anything, and no one will hear.

HELLO! LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN! MY POTATOES ARE ON FIRE! ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY WALK INTO MORDOR!

That being adressed, I believe that I should set some things straight, with myself:

1. You are not Thoreau.
2. You are not Emerson.
3. Trancendentalism does not flow out of your fingertips like a magical power.

You are simply Ninja Atrocious, whose glorious wonder cannot be contained by the mere walls of an emotionless blog.
With all sincerity,
Myself