And there I was— cackling like the Mad Hatter as I imagined holding my own head like a sparking blender— shoving all the knowledge I’ve ever heard and grinding it to a slurry.

The type movie villains slurp down like fetid sludge as they try to freak the protagonist out in some sort of half-cocked stand-off.

But there’s no stand off, it’s just my creativity slipping the chains and running for the hills.

Readymade to transform into a highland guerrilla— ready to react the glory days of the Pictish marauders that terrorized the Romans and forced Hadrian to build that wall (which wall you ask? Hadrian’s wall. That glorious serpentine shit brick line that divides England and Scotland— more or less).

And all of this energy? All of this irreverent energy— a great thumbing to the cosmic inanity of it all? Because the rule book doesn’t say otherwise.