Waking up in the asylum I realized what went wrong. Veering is insufficient as a method to reverse self-destruction. I conviced myself that singing B flat instead of C sharp might alter my path overflowing with a laser-lock towards the wall. So maybe instead of veering, launching towards the stars could have diverted me from this stint in La-la-land. If reality is being managed microsecond by microsecond by socially networked psychopaths then how did I miss the memo that revealed "it's mostly bullshit"? I didn't. Damn, man, do you think there's any way an educated elder wouldn't automatically see through the effluvium of ego-tripping called "social jizzwah"? I didn't end up here because I posted my status or tweeted too much - I'm here because my ass fell off. It happened one afternoon while I was drying the limo with a ShamWow and I looked on the ground and my ass was looking up at me flattened by the concrete driveway. Next thing I can remember is waking up here. Should I just have picked up my ass and pushed it back into place before the ambulance turned the corner and there I was, a sitting duck assless and bewildered? Well, I have all my parts where they should be now and I remember the words to "please don't talk about me when I'm gone" without a pony. Luckily. the xeriscape is void of any dropped-ass action and my guess is I'll be with you in apple blossom time by this time tomorrow. These are just speed bumps in the thoroughfare of fate and flirting with a blue angel or two transmogrifies your bullshit bucket list back into the Delorean independent of Christopher Lloyd's attached ass. Soothing and they are mild.