I feel compelled to qualify every sentence I utter, which in many instances require their own qualification. Where's my luckdragon, it's the Neverending Story all over again. That's OK, it's all OK. During my infinite regress or recursive reflection depending on what way I feel like defining the quandary of my daydreaming, I reach maybe the third level down and I start loitering. There's far too much to take in here. I can almost hear Elton John singing.
Language is too beautiful not to use, I complain about having to explain everything, but deep down I want it to go on forever (The Elements of Style be damned! but only when I'm not using them). This blog can acurately be described as an incredibly prolonged argument with myself. I'm also in love with the passive voice and I am not ashamed. Writing this is a lot cheaper than seeing a therapist.
At present on the third level down when I start with Australia as a catalyst, things move quickly to rugby league. Which then morph roughly into how ridiculous this all is. Sure I just told you where my true love lies, but I also have a real fetish for absurdity, so I just can't help but feel immensely impressed with myself right now. I'm doing something that makes no sense and is about as likely to end in success as an atom exploding into a full blown universe. Hey, Pinocchio walked on water (or at least he could have being made of wood) and Jesus became a real boy (you know like he was like a God and then he magically became a fully fledged fetus, oh I'm qualifying again. Forget it).
Sometimes strange things happen.
P.S. This has nothing to do with anything except the most ridiculous buzzer beating 3 pointer since Robert Horry killed the Kings in 2002. LeBron's literal last second 3 yesterday will surely become the newest iconic shot in the NBAs pantheon of greats. I have a man crush on LeBron James. Shhh, don't tell anyone.
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