I am overwhelmed by my undercover operations where my outward self competes with my inside voice and tries to protect my family from overzealous overexposure. My overactive imagination forces my common sense underground so my overachiever tendencies can undermine my already undernourished sense of decorum and I end up overtly exposing my soft underbelly to the blogging underworld and can’t even remember if I’ve put on clean underwear.
And don’t even get me started on my overbite.
Whenever I start to think that I am some kind of hot tamale, reality comes hot on my heels and I’m forced to accept that in truth I am a hot mess who is full of hot air. I wouldn’t blame anyone for tossing me for the next hot topic like some mutant, irradiated hot potato.
My train of thought is clearly a wreck and I fret that the debut of my dubiously considered plans will be a debacle of demonic proportions. With no small consternation but with little consideration for the consequences I steam ahead like a pack of wildebeest drunk on Wild Turkey. And I don’t even have the need to sow my wild oats as an excuse. Wild thing, indeed.
This is all so much sound and fury signifying nothing, but sounding boards and sound thinking seldom take the soundstage together. But there are times when you need a place to let out a little steam in order to lube the chassis, oil the gears and grease the wheels.
But you know what they say: sometimes the squeaky wheel gets kicked.
But you didn’t hear that from ME.