The Charm Offensive Extrapolation

I wasn't as surprised as I should’ve been— grayed avatar, dead links, cached titles still looking to lead somewhere. And here I am, already down a cell phone— with FedEx in no hurry, nothing left to refresh-obsess over. What’ll I do with all this time? Not that this is about me— or is it? By the power of Strunk & White, have mercy, I hope I can take at least partial credit. I’ll claim it; otherwise, it's just me stuck, sucking up oxygen wondering if I was ever worth the breath. Maybe I'm kidding myself. Bliss doesn’t make good story, won't keep people around, interested in words, no matter how much need brays from their every sentence. We’re all donkeys and liars, living up to our pages versions of ourselves, cross-bred sociability, mouths full of bad faith, hiding halitosis and worse teeth. But here's the thing: I’ve spent far too long learning to spell my own name, cutting grammar's corners closer to the curb than recommended, earning the space to say— whatever. the. hell. I. want. I'm surprised more people aren't tired of playing, pretending not to have a need to edit, to rehab the edges of their worst selves— bigger shame though that they don't sell breath mints to cover the stink of disagreeable personalities. Today's a day I could use one, for a few of mine.