Boilerplate

There's something boiling inside me. I can feel the bubbles. Fermenting, fermenting. The pressure's building. Ready to burst out with force.

I pray to all the gods it's a critically-acclaimed bestselling novel.

So. What's new you all? Sab thik thak? Yeah? Aru, aru? Kei naya chhaina? Sure?

Still going to the dance classes and hanging out with your 'friend'? Who may or may not be your significant other but who cares as long as you're having fun and please you (meaning the writer) shouldn't be judgmental about sex because as long as you're with someone you enjoy being with sex is okay, and you don't need to be in a relationship -- I cannot fathom why you (the writer) think it is okay to hook up and so is being in a relationship but anything in between is disgusting and unacceptable-- do I sense hypocrisy and what not here, because there are no rules written down anywhere except maybe the ones that probably say 'everything I (meaning the writer) say is right, and everything else is not'. Hai?

Okay, so who's speaking right now? Is it the writer, the reader, or the character now? What are the walls being broken? Are words being put into the mouths of those that never uttered them for the sake of a good story? If they are, where's the limit? Discuss.

What is truth, and what is reality, and does it all even matter?

I have a serious impairment -- a limited vocabulary. There's another one -- a proclivity to write awkward sentences instead of simple but short sentences with a better flow. I wish I wrote sentences that flowed instead of bumping with each other like they were in a fish-market full of fat feisty fathers of fingering clowns.