write wrong.,

i always was under the impression that the more you do something,
the better you get at it.
y'know?
like,
there's an established number of hours invested
before mastery can be considered achieved;
or,
that practice makes perfect;
or,
that repetition instills automatic memory of motion and so on......
but,
i write a LOT,
and i'm still sort of sure that i write wrong.
am i right?
usually, yes, i am.
mmhmm.
and all that i've written, thus far,
inasmuch as you've read of these missile-drop-kick dismissive missives,
for all of the real-life documentation of first-personal perspicacity,
composed entirely in confessionally coconspiratorial contentious
stream-of-unconscionable-non-conscientousness?
it has never righted a wrong,
in fact,
what is more often illustrated and illuminated is the essential incorrectness
of grammatically egregious run-on-and-on-and-on sentence structure,
and the confusing alliterative labyrinth that makes the storyline elusive.
and let's not forget the use of indulgent convolutions,
and the irascible admissions and admonitions that add such depth and breadth
to the true tales told truly, which serve superlatively to endow the
words designed and aligned and arranged to tell the saga of warrior poetry,
sitting unprettily, and pretty sh!ttily in the woodsly goodness,
with an urban edwardian double-negative infinitive infinity that is
laboriously obvious and hidden at once,
and absolutely inaccessible to others.
-----------
translation:
i use all the words,
and they don't ever say anything that couldn't be expressed with less.
the above is an instructive example of the art.
however,
too much is the right amount,
and for those of us who love looove LOVE words,
there are never enough.
that's what i'm doing when i doo-doo that overwrought wordplay.
it's an exercise in vocabulary
and an abstraction of competent communication.
also,
i like that way it all sounds when i read it back into my brain.
wordimus prime.
-----------
so,
i write wrong.
y'feel me?
ha.
y'all stopped reading so long ago i could type anything,
and you'd miss it for all the skimming to the picture you're doing.
ha.
that's cool.
my point was, i don't know that i am any better at writing than when i started this,
but i DO know for certain i'm better than i was at everything else.
that's real.
anyway,
here's some base and vulgar real talk for your hungry bellies-
when you're home alone,
and your butt doesn't care about farting,
the best dinners are on the menu.
neighbors,
go ahead and check the teleport:

mmmmhmmmmm.
brussels sprouts and broccoli, g.p.o.p.'d and locked,
with a blast of brick-colored bacon-flavored bean-based briquettes,
and all the broiled black peppery tofu cubes i could cut up at the time!
yep.
one whole package of tofu, right into my mouth,
and those green brassica bastards, bright green but still browned at the edges?
yep.
i'm filling up on vitamins and stuff,
and i'm filling out in my midsection, too.
i'm on my way to grotesquerie, kids-
one bite, and then another, and then another 'nother,
in a row, all the time, in my face.
i'm getting better at getting grossed out by everything i do,
but i'm still the same purple prosaic dark-and-stormy-nightingale,
singing my song off-time and out-of-tune.
that's just my style?
EW!
that's the go-to mea culpa for those who cannot adapt and overcome.
instead, let's all agree that my way is a hard-style,
and an acquired taste.
a luxury, if you will,
and in that sense: desirable.
...
...
...
hahahahaha.
C'MON!!!
what are you?
an A*-hole??!!
don't be dumb,
but thanks for reading;
never quiet, never soft.....