It's Always Me, Isn't It? I'm Not

The Key To A Happy Life Is To Have Accomplishments To Be Proud Of And Purpose To Look Forward To, And At The Moment I Had Both. How Wonderful It Was To Be Me.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

Because I Am An Inhuman Monster, I Tend To Be Logical.

I Sighed; As Comforting As It May Be To Some Of Us, Sarcasm, Like Youth, Is Wasted On The Young.

For The First Time I Could Remember, I Felt Weak, Woozy And Stupid— Like A Human-being. Like A Very Small And Helpless Human-being.