Choked.

Okay, let me say it bluntly: life is (currently) good. Although my occasional state of mind is questionably warbly, I can safely say that everything's fine. I haven't had any niggling worries crop up over the last week, and it's come to a point where I can't even find anything worthwhile to say besides giving tips on How To Make Your Girlfriend's Mother To Like You, which I won't do, because it's quite passe.

I know that I'm the one who finds a temporary, easy-fix solution to weasel his way out of a problem. I don't see what's wrong with it, either. I also like passing the blame onto somebody else when an instance of finger-wagging is called for. My nature of never assuming responsibility has always gotten the better of me; but I've always conjured up consistent and feasible scapegoats and diversions.

It's hardly a case of being a mad genius. I like to think that I know what my role is, and I play it like a seasoned thespian. Life has a certain Shakespearean quality to it, and I'm only trying to maintain that quality, and to make people's lives just as interesting.

I am a tinkerer, simply because I like to tinker, and I have naughty hands, and naughty fingers.

I am a conjurer, simply because I like to make things disappear and reappear at my very whim.

I am a barrista, because I can make the best cheap coffee of my generation.

You need me.

I might not be your King today, but there's always the possibility of a road that leads to my Rome being built tomorrow. And unlike the Rome of yore, my Rome stays.

Fetch my crown and cape. We're going to a funktion.