Ah. What to say, what to do, how to transcribe the utter hatred and dissatisfaction and routine routine routine boring routine of life here on Soybean Island . . . This Island, this Kingdom, this Domain and Realm of Intransigent Listless Lethargic Monotonous Lassitudenal Doldrumable boring Tedium.
Yes.
If only I could escape this place. If only I had never been captured in the dark of night and drugged, dragged and beaten, forced to come here . . .
to live in this regulated and ignorance-groomed authoritarian land/society/agrarian-prison-camp where all life . . .
is an unauthorized verisimilitude of real life, free life, a life worth examining and thus living . . .
life a vehicle that should not be unattended or at least not attended by the invisible masters of this putrid agricultural-based golfing-insurance-salesman-corporate-controlled anal wasteland . . .
(Oh. The above seems to be an international sign saying: Nudists Sit Here)
No. No, I will not succumb. I will wallow in the appropriate and self-prescribed amount of self pity while all the time planning for my grand escape. I will do the bidding of the Eye-Nye-Hab Revolutionaries while at the same time mollify The Apparatus who control my world until my time comes.
Yes.
I shall.
I will feel better--someday.
Oneninefiveseven over and out and, as always:
Goodbye from Soybean Island
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