I never know what’s going to come out the ends of my fingertips when I sit down to write. Never know if I’ll even agree with what I have to say. I just listen, and type what’s coming through my implant. If it scares me I dress myself in a rubber suit, and have nightmares about it when I sleep. If it flatters me I take it home to meet my mother, hoping to assure her that I haven’t lost my marbles, just my favorite shooter. If it aggravates me I beat myself to death with clip-on ponytails left over from the slumber party. If it insults me I ignore it until it impales itself on my disinterest. Reaching these conclusions is a dangerous and difficult thing to do, not suited for everybody. They are not attainable goals for the chronically disengaged, the deranged, or the psychologically malnourished. You should never try these things at home, especially not alone. They are treacherous slopes to try and navigate, dizzying heights for the unqualified to conquer, hazardous stairways to the sky, without the benefit of handrails.
And for any amateur adventurers you might know, or social climbers, better tell them to watch themselves, the first step is the steepest.
