I scribbled a few garbled words on a ruffled paper. They stared me back. I stared them down.
How can it be that the love affair between men and words has become so acrimonious? Where are the days of gallantry when gentlemen minced words and pretended membership in high society?
I’m aghast at my own free fall into dark putrid alleys where vulgar speak is extolled. My self-deceptive snobbery is none but a glamorized coat on a pig.
Is pretense the mother of my twisted sins? Is my farcical yet amicable friendship with words nothing but a Freudian void of an uninhibited and supremely honest childhood cry?
Pretense imitates life. Do I embody pretense?
to high society?