"[Un]like the girl in the club - [I can] back it up"

He grew tired of swallowing his pride; it was too cold: Brain freeze wasn't something He particularly enjoyed. Thus, He disliked ice cream.

However, He did enjoy the cool,refreshing, taste of a Flinstone's Pushup. Much like Fred, He was from an era that no longer existed; A throwback to yesterday - only found at your local Mitchell & Ness dealer or perhaps in the latest rap videos.

As He churned his way through MTV's and BET's rotations, He often wondered what this intoxicating sensation in His body was. Having already amputated most of His emotion due to gangrene, He continued to ponder. Love? Lust? Hadoken? He threw up a gang sign, but it was mostly alcohol. Nevertheless, it was still quite chunky. As the pieces swiveled and revolved to fit into this porcelain board, He flushed: Tetris.

Having treated life like a game for so long, He often had a hard time distinguishing His perception or dreams from reality. Maybe He needed a monocle. Who knows. He didn't. Everything blurred together. Perception and Dreams would cross Reality's borders with tanks and a so called new diet plan: Weapons of Mass Destruction. In turn, Reality would strike back, which would lead to a cease fire, which would lead to, depending on the foreign policies of the time, US intervention. It was all very confusing. Albeit, the temptations were real though, and not just in His imagination.

Which paved the way for him to grow from a boy II a man, with new editions coming out frequently, typically at 1:12 AM or PM dawn, always in sync, but sometimes not, with each edge more jagged than the last.

Sort of like tater tots. He loved tater tots.

You're never too old to make believe

He preferred to live in his fiction.

In his fiction there were ninjas and robots and dinosaurs. Sometimes robotic dinosaur ninjas. Other times, dinosaur riding, ninjas.

In his fiction, jade was still just a color - it had yet to be verbed.
Magic was more than just a card game, and having a dream was more than just a speech public schools attempted to teach every February.

In his fiction, everyone was regular and not full of shit.
The only bull shit to be found came from bulls, and perhaps Chicago players.

In his fiction, the model of his being only appreciated.
The value never dropped as soon as he left the lot, and no one ever tried to suggest how he should drive. He was valued for what he was.

In his fiction, he didnt suffer.
He didn't have suffrage. It was not a democracy.

In his fiction, he wrote better than this.