In the Garden of Idi. I Mean…
Having had the song stuck in my head for nearly three days, I have concluded that I am NOT a rock, and I am no island.
I’m somewhere between a Nerf-like consistency and soapstone, perhaps, bordering on doughy, depending on what I ate for dinner the night before. And possibly more of a jetty or an isthmus or a peninsula, even. It’s not a commitment thing by any stretch, but more of some Darwinian deal, in which I’d prefer some form of diversity, yet I select to have this marshy land that’s difficult to traverse to get to the core of my land mass, you know? Not fully secluded, but certainly not to the point of having an Applebees and four Starbucks. A small town with some cultural history, yet not enticing to hipsters. Like sort of dangerous-looking, but mostly due to the abandoned, half-stripped car sitting on the corner near that really tasty rib place.
I’m sorry, Paul Simon, but while you touch no one, and no one touches you, I simply cannot keep my hands off of myself. And this isthmus/jetty/peninsula-man thing cries.