If you've ever stared into the gaping abyss of yourself, you'll probably know that nothing has a deeper bottom than a pornstarlet. People of depth have parts to themselves that are far from the shallows and closer to the gallows. You can make as many handbags out of a blogger's ear as you like but there's only one certain way to go blind. If you've ever played darts blindfolded you'll know what I'm talking about. People who've played pub-games impaired know everything. Knowing myself as I do, and I surely don't, I know that there isn't much to know about things that have little to know about them. Little known as it is, the self is far from an indelicate matter. Throw yourself in the laundry with delicates and you'll know just how much. To know yourself isn't as important as knowing me. I'm it and a bit and a bit and another bit. Another bit of information that you'll clutch to your bosom is that clutching information to your bosom is pointless. The self is more than an accumulation of knowledge. It takes depth so take a floatie. Like a turd in a swimming pool, I'm popular. Popular like a shit in a sandpit. Self and others: opposite.
Meiditating on my own magnificence, as I often do, I came to the rather happy realisation that I was even more magnificent than even I first suspected. When I am faced with the startling proposal that I might be at fault, after bench-pressing a cargo plane full of ailing equines, I can happily say that no, I am never in the wrong. Yes, that's right. It is in the midst of such a magnificent ego, as my own, that others must surely (and they surely do) find some solace in the magnificent energy source. I'll take you to be someone of lesser inteligence but greater stupidity than my wonderful, flawless self. Being of such extraordinary spiritual standing (and floating), I'll take you under my wings and carry you far away from any semblance of reality. Reality is a deeply troubling semblance. On the surface of things, it might appear that I, in light of recent unfortunates, have been a little bit of a hypocrite. I won't hear of it though, not in your presence. The shock for you to find that I have been so would send you cartwheeling off into an olympic stadium of despair. All of this, is of such intelligence that very few, including you, have ever encountered and, I'll trust you to know this yourself, as I surly do. I'll trust you to know a fool when you read one because sage is a herb. It would be stupid of me, perish the mere thought, to leave you without one last thing. Intelligent and stupid: opposite.
For some, some reason is reason enough to reason that some are without reason. While they are under the misheld belief that they are wholly without the capacity to conclude from premisses, they are wholly within reason to reason so. Reason, so unreasonably the instrument of the rational, is, without a good reason, employed in the services of the most wonderful atrocities imaginable. It is with good reason that reason is distributed only amongst certain reasonable classes, and not others. For some reason, for some, reason is the sum of their existence. To exist for the sole purposes of multiplying seems reasonable enough, and when you boil it down seems even more so. So, if you are in full control of your facilities you might not like what I'm about to say next. Reason is a wonderful thing. It's my reason for living. I can't imagine what I'd do without it. If it had an opposite, and far be it from me to tinkle on your piano while pissing in your poscket, then imagination might be well be it. Be it in dreaming up some sandwiches for a hat or a talking pair of piano-pants, imagination is just as wonky as a television on a bad hair day with a moustache. Moustaches are deeply offensive. In all these instances, the erroneousness of images is a sight for soaring minds. Reason and imagination: opposite.
In this physical thing of two sides that we find ourselves in, it can be alarmingly difficult to co-ordinate both those sides at the one time. Believe you me, I've not really been trying of late to get the two halves of the whole to do anything meaningful at all. A tall person might find it doubly difficult, I deduce. If you need any evidence that the thing you were born into and have grown into and have suffered into has two sides then look no further than the eyes in your head or the hands that hang like fried possums from power lines. It's simply unavoidable to go out into the superhighway with your tennis ball and not expect to cop a serve. The point of what I'm on about, if I may be so bold, is to confirm the affirmation that there are indeed two opposing sides, inescapably. You'll notice that nobody really cares about the things that are as plain as the nose up your arse, but you'll plug on regardless. Sometimes the whole thing is just such a drain but there are so many things still to find out about that are right in front of us. Right in front of our eyes is our nose and that has two nostrils. If you have nose to smell, you'll soon realise that tapping your melon while scratching your toolshed is not as much fun as doing the reverse with a friend. Tap into what is right under your nose, there's really no need to look any further. If you have the motor skills to do so, by all means, have a little manual entertainment. Tapping your scone and massaging your midrift: opposite.
Norm
Mal
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