Ixnay on the observer effect. This is the point, like a starched corner on a clothing tag jabbing the nape of your neck. You never lack the answer to "why am I here?" when fate takes you to that place like the bulldog on a skateboard being videoed for youtube. You swagger shamelessly like the clueless pidgeon who shits on your pool tile. You know there's no absolute truth that matches the fulfillment of true love like the way a paisley shirt matches with a pair of awning striped bell bottoms found on the retro-rack at Savers. If God wanted you to walk around in an affection starved stupor like Tom Brokaw wobbled from the set when the Ambien kicked in, then God would have ensured that the Americans with Disabilities Act would include provisions that handrails are required on every possible walking lane to disguise the wobble. Actualization leaves you grinning like a guy who farts in a crowded elevator and makes everybody in there think it's the guy behind him because of the way he turns his head and goes "tsk". This ain't no metaphor, this ain't no foolin' around - Brave 'bators everywhere seek that hallowed ground between remission and remarkable rapture. If you're happy and you know it make it twitch.