There’s a kind of couple that walks in a pair and the pair feeds off each other’s malfeasance. The man walks with a stumpiness, with a gate that resembles an old vicar that has too much power in a town, or that one bad guy from a television show that you know is about to do some creep shit. You can tell he is a creep, whether it’s creeping on women or men or kids, but a creep nonetheless. It’s like every person is his candy store and he can’t help but dip his fingers into the merchandise. The woman walks with her hands resting on her hips, quiet, thinking of how everything is inspiring her sensibilities and going over the scenario of talking to her partner about remodeling the kitchen. Everything is inspirational and everything is candy.

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I can’t imagine being inspired by much or having much to say to anyone about my inspiration or lack thereof. You must bring foreign agents into your home and beyond your home, into your mind, to talk inspiration. Do they talk about anything else when they talk? Where are their creepy husbands while they pass the time being inspired by taupe. I don’t find them when I am wandering around in the dark with my hands outstretched, eyes fooling from cone deficiency. Lots of talk of NPC’s these days, but I ain’t never seen a game that doesn’t have at least a player one or a player two. I have no memory of playing any game. It’s like sleeping, not dreaming, it’s like hunger, not eating, it’s like shitting, not wiping your ass. I don’t know what it’s like, I just know it’s the kind of small talk that makes me feel small and I am a big boy now. 

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They must have observed it from their parents to be this unsure of new pathways. They must have brought this upon themselves in the nighttime whenever they were all alone with nowhere to go and no one to make small talk with. Hold them, don’t hold me. Hold us all if your arms are big enough, if your arms are bigger than their husbands, if your arms stretch like Stretch Armstrong and not the bootleg version, Stretch Armsweak. You’re Stretch Armsweak the Fourth, holder of the bag of the dynasty of make believe nobility and make believe knowledge. 

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If I have to hear another person tell me about how inspired they were by Ulysses S. Grant I might explode.

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