Lunch for Game Players

I awoke this morning, and like the premature mid-cunnilingus endings, deflated and irritated I carried on with the day. Not at all interested in treading backwards, finger in spine. I'd rather find coital bliss in a sea of creation.

I'm in a tank, shortening my breath and curling up. Maybe if I'm really, really quiet, that snake of epic size won't smell me. Maybe I will live to poop another day instead of becoming the poop of my predator. It could happen.

I'm a self-aware pawn, waiting for that grubby-chubby-smart-guy hand to close around my frozen plastic form and move me in to play. My greatest hope is to be the last pawn standing. The one who sails across the board, one square at a time, to become the queen. We-hoo.

I'm a kite on a string, enjoying the cool, fall breeze. In predictable loops, I dance and play until the one pulling my string tugs too hard and I plummet to the ground. Nose crunched, tangled up and bent, I lie there waiting to be collected.

I've got a metaphor for every occasion.
 An illustration to illuminate the illusion of illustrious interactions that idiots with idiosyncrasies idolize.
A game that plays the players' game.
I'm walking the walk while watching the talk.
Like speech bubbles that warp their way out of a mouth and pop like over blown balloons, scattering letters on the ground.
Premature lunch pawned for kite-strings....see... I tied it all together. Yay me.
On stage, the drum-roll just ended, cue the tinned laughter.
Sit up in bed.
Snake strikes for lunch.
Pawn on the side-line.
Kite left to wilt.
Metaphor over, curtain descends.
Laughter falls silent.
Game over, the end.