Jello

My brain is jello today. Has been since around 2 or so. Didn't hang up from talking with Jason until 3:30 in the morning or so. You know it's bad when I'm not witty enough to remember a line from the Declaration of Independence as a smartass comeback. When my twang starts coming back.
My surroundings have been too institutional lately. No pun intended. And my blog writing has been so blasse. If only I'd let myself out of the grasp of the grammar queen. She lurks in my brain and tells me that sentences must be diagrammable.
So I suck. Especially in comparison to people who let themselves go in prose. Like Dogboy. And in comparison to the commander of dialogue, Pratt. And to the mayor of Smartassville, Yager.
The paper-grader and former legal secretary does all the typing. And acts as the libby. The romantic poet hides all her poems. And lingers in a gondola staring up at the sun peeking through the fog. She wants to vaporize all formalities. But she knows that when she lifts her veil, lightning bursts from clouds she didn't know were there, leaving her feeling vulnerable and afraid. She'd rather be happy and only seldom make public appearances than have to admit her desires. Her fears. Her quirks. Her superstitions. And she'd never admit that she's really the one who holds the strings. The grammar queen is but a puppet.