Dots

I’m a dot-connector. It’s been a curse since my birth. As a baby, crawling around, goo-goo ga-ga and all that bullshit, things came together. The lopsided blocks fit, puzzles made sense, all in all I could rationalize the “baby-ness” put before me. Tasks were, and are, easy to complete. Dot-connecting is a wary path to follow. It’s filled to the brim with metaphors. Metaphorical wolves snapping at your well-being, metaphorical Iscariot-ian villains plotting against you, and metaphorical thugs named Billy F. Turner flipping you over a dusty-futon and trying to force himself into you.