Happy Birthday

There is a faint glimmer of sound and whisper of light.  (See what i did there, with the words and their perceptions? And now - parenthetically letting you get a peek inside my head...this is the kind of moment that just allows me to wish that, in just this one instance, I were you, so that I could enjoy me in a new way.)  Shine on me, autumn breeze.

jimmy accuses squirrel of plagerism...

uh huh, right, headline news.  jimmy is upset, he can't write anything and has sunk to the new low of accusing me of stealing his writings (see comment section of previous post).  Sorry jimmy, no one believes you.  I didn't steal anything from you.  You wish you could write with the style, wit, and tempered genius that I apply to my prose.  Well, enough of entertaining jimmy's delusions.  
I have heard nothing from the wife of maybe-son in months.  I am out of work again...oh, I did notice, sorry, I did say I was done talking about jimmy, but just this one more thing...jimmy, i noticed a lot of empty liquor bottles in your recycling bin.  I know you haven't had any people over.  I know no one else in your family drinks liquor.  So, logic diagram...A + B = jimmy is killing himself slowly...uh huh, right, headline news.  poor rotten jimmy.

Irony is often not irony.

What's up with all of you?  That is rhetorical.  I don't really care. I would be curious if you were interesting, but you're not, so I am not curious.  I have a mole on the side of my head that my doctor told me was nothing to worry about, but I know it is ground zero for the death button God has planted on my noggin.  But that is not the source of my anger.  The source of my anger is petulant pessimism. Ironic. Oh yes, and irony - I hate it too.