Click & Roll

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            To Percy, light upon his waterbed.     I’m the Scorpion King.   Beware, not the Camel King, nor, albeit my rattling ways, a snakish one.   My reign is a desolate wasteland which I, myself, have created. Where dumb-dumb  Ozymandiases  rust. Where mythologies go to die like an, oh so secretive, fart. Far away enough of people so they can pass quietly and unheard.   My reign is also of venom: purulent, vicious. Highly alcoholic melancholy, not of lethargic rest but instead breeder of anxious sleep, of bad poetry during late hours best served for onanistic endeavors.   ¡Behold the Scorpion King!   ¡Behold my drunkenness, ye mighty, and compare: the width of your temples to the size of my ding-dong!   Only one of them remains. Funny looking scorpion tail amidst ass and belly

You think reading  stories  is not worth the hassle,  but we’re made  of them.  The pictures you hold  in your gloomy head  that compose the narrative  of your life  and give it sense  are a story.  That ethereal memory,  at the back of your eyes,  of holding onto her  at a day’s end  it’s fiercely recalled  now  as a story.  How your parents met.  How you came to be.  How those before  those before  were,  is told as a story.  The plain anecdote.  The stinging complaint.  The trivial recount  with which  you explain yourself  to your friends: all things  experienced  owe their hold  of the soul  to storytelling.