The shredded Iceberg lettuce of authors

In a recent discussion with a friend and after mentioning that very few living creatures are able to live at either pole, I took stock in my temperate surroundings. Modestly middle class and enjoying a comfortable existence I queried of us both of why neither of us could rest in a comfortable median when it came to being healthy. Rationalizing my destructive behavior has been my forte for most of my creative life. Oh how wonderful to be a misanthropic artistic force, my twisted machinations of the written word being my proudest accomplishments. The world must see how miserably productive I can be.

Yeah. So?

So what to do when the engine starts knocking like the tail end of the best bender you believe that you've ever enjoyed. Alliterative prose filled with the best metaphor you've ever created, comparatively placed on an alter next to the best fix you've ever copped. Being a man of a pretenious comportment I may tell you the written word has been my mistress since puberty had me chasing similes for a quick dry hand release. With the deft cunning of a predator in its natural habitat, I osmotically acquired the ability to astound myself with loquacious verbosity. Smugly proud of vacuously empty sentences stuffed like a club sandwich with big words being the condiments. I love to giggle at the fact that people never say, "I had just had the best ham on rye, the mustard was so good!"

No one ever wants to answer the door and see themselves. They long to see a desperate friend they can give advice to. Imagine opening the door to see yourself and having to take your own advice? I can think of very few things more disgusting than that. Gross. I only like to fix other people and then surreptitiously slink back to the bottom of my own destructive proclivities and settle smugly like sediment. So you can take my advice, use it, and prosper or don't. I don't care I'm fuckin perfect.

Assholes.

My engine is hewn from a single block of the purest iron, forged pistons that unfailingly gallop toward an unreachable redline. An incomparable workhorse of perpetual internal combustion. My engine will never knock, ping, or lose timing. Impeccable design and forethought created this design whose blueprints have no equal.

Downside?

The fuel is prohibitively expensive and although varied, increasingly difficult to find. Knowing that, one can see the crux of the issue.

If an engine isn't running it's almost impossible to know whether or not it's destroyed completely or just out of gas.