Aisle 2, second shelf to the left

I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I'm doing. The words that come out of my mouth, or sentences that flow through my hands, are nothing more than stranded mix tapes or the residual of aged and dying thought processes. I don't think I'm witty, and I don't think I'm gifted, but all I know is I have enough sense on what is social taboo or what should be said, and I reject  it, and instead I project my own series of tasteful obscenities, in hopes of the long awaited corruption of the chaste slices of Wonderbread we identify as. Because how long can a person hide behind figures of speech, until they implode? If I were to bathe in pearls, and speak as if I was attending a perpetual cocktail party, my greatest achievement in life would be that I died; nonetheless my grave would be adorned with a petty salad of flowers. I am not afraid to say what I do because I refuse to put my head down quietly, and will not sit down in the pews, because if we govern a control unto our words, what's left to be said? I don't fear society or rejection anymore, and will go out blazing. Sadly, I do not feel the same notion for the most of you, of whom mild cordiality is all you have ever summoned up. In a delicately odd way, what I have feveriously produced is more private than public, because what really lurks behind the intricately woven metaphors and vaguely delicious comparisons? As a cry for help is best laid to rest on a bed of words, strewn unto moot ears. Now you may advance, and please do, stock up on your life time supply of white bread.