Post by Jack of Blades on May 1, 2007 14:33:08 GMT -5
"No. This isn't goodbye. Merely...bonjour." - Del Boy, Only Fools & Horses.
My name is, was and will be Jack. That much is a certainty. However, it appears as if the momentum has shifted away from my position forcing me to deny any other probabilities. This is a goodbye of sorts. As normal a goodbye as a madman can give.
My reason for leaving. My cross has been bore. My weight has been shifted. My burden lifted. And etc. I no longer have twenty-pounds of gold to keep my trousers from falling. The curse has been lifted and a proud champion has brought light and serenity to the tortured land.
My curse has gone as well. The belt being lifted over my shoulder. A perfect embodiment and resultant construct of all my achievements hung over my shoulder. And yet I felt nothing. No pride over it. I had calculated and fortified my psyche against allowing myself to becoming to elated with the belt and yet, it was the inverse of that problem. I simply didn't care for being a king. The jester always had more fun.
For all those who follow my Odyssey for the belt, heed my shrill warnings for once you raise that strap above your head, you are forbidden from finding any motivation. And that is it.
And so, I take my leave. From the asylum, my straight-jacket hanging loose, cackling like a loon into the twilight. You may find me on the cover of Forbes or in tatters on a street-corner. There are other mediums that now need to find their funny bone. For now, the WCF is humourless. At least until my 'Denis Leary' arrives.
By the way, I have a second-hand ebony chattel with a penchant for vases for sale if anyone is interested.
-Jack.
My name is, was and will be Jack. That much is a certainty. However, it appears as if the momentum has shifted away from my position forcing me to deny any other probabilities. This is a goodbye of sorts. As normal a goodbye as a madman can give.
My reason for leaving. My cross has been bore. My weight has been shifted. My burden lifted. And etc. I no longer have twenty-pounds of gold to keep my trousers from falling. The curse has been lifted and a proud champion has brought light and serenity to the tortured land.
My curse has gone as well. The belt being lifted over my shoulder. A perfect embodiment and resultant construct of all my achievements hung over my shoulder. And yet I felt nothing. No pride over it. I had calculated and fortified my psyche against allowing myself to becoming to elated with the belt and yet, it was the inverse of that problem. I simply didn't care for being a king. The jester always had more fun.
For all those who follow my Odyssey for the belt, heed my shrill warnings for once you raise that strap above your head, you are forbidden from finding any motivation. And that is it.
And so, I take my leave. From the asylum, my straight-jacket hanging loose, cackling like a loon into the twilight. You may find me on the cover of Forbes or in tatters on a street-corner. There are other mediums that now need to find their funny bone. For now, the WCF is humourless. At least until my 'Denis Leary' arrives.
By the way, I have a second-hand ebony chattel with a penchant for vases for sale if anyone is interested.
-Jack.
