Chapter Seven: Speaking of No Plot...
These little anecdotes are just not even remotely related at all, are they? Not a one of them has anything to do with the others, has it? I think that the problem is that National Novel Writing Month has tainted my writing with its "Fit as Many Words into as Little a Space as You Can" stain, so that merely due to the fact that the document in which I am typing this nonsense happens to be called by "nano07" and happens to have been choked full of junk writing from the very first day and initiation of this contest like a clear pristine subterranean glacial stream into which a dump truck has dropped, like a bear making a diarrheal excretory deposit on some poor woodsman's car, its entire load of garbage - rotten vegetables, rancid milk, dirty diapers, feminine protection products, used contraceptive aids, broken glass bottles that originally held cheap alcohol, dust-filled vacuum bags and all the like, it has been polluted. So, in other words, I am attempted, by way of my recent skipping between these many unconnected incidents, to figuratively remove all of this figurative foulness and garbage from the figurative stream of my writing. Which is to say, in still other words, that I am currently attempting to backpedal and start over, like a bicyclist, racing down that awful steep winding hill a little north of here that I used to have to go down in the early early morning to get to an 8.30 am chemistry class when I used to ride my bike to school at six in the morning in the freezing cold and the pitch black dark that makes you need to have a light on your bike not so much to let the cars and other bikers and pedestrians know that you're coming but even more just so that you can see the road in front of you as you make your way and the wet rainy slippery awfulness that follows a night of downpouring water, who has just discovered that he has no brakes any longer because they have been cut by some undesirable element of a person who has it in for the bicyclist or else he simply let his breaks wear down because he kept meaning to change them, which is to say to get the brake pads replaced, but he kept just never getting around to doing it and procrastinating and so on until, on this fateful pitch dark morning, he realised that it was too late, because now he's careering down a slick winding road in the dark with cars coming out of everywhere and with speedbumps and potholes and stupid raised ridges of pavement intended to direct the flow of the water that runs down the hill at breakneck speeds, like our friend the bicyclist is now running at, during rainstorms. And then the bicyclist's bike light runs out of batteries and it flickers off and then he crashes and dies and-
Okay, sorry, but that metaphor got just a little bit carried away, wouldn't you agree? Good, because if you couldn't agree then I'm afraid I'd have to tell you that you're a freak. But you agreed, so that's okay. Anyhow. Moving on already.
How about a little bit of trash cleanup, eh? Metaphorically speaking, of course. Or was it figuratively speaking? Oh well, whatever. You get the idea.