Boxxy Theory

Life is a series of boxxies (like a proxy, proxies...), a series of annoying phenomena that mutate whilst you scramble - like a bollocks - to try and reap the dignity you sowed into the vile earth, scampering like a pale-dog with ball-in-mouth, summoning masters with a meager yelp, hoping and scrimping and saving with a savage grin sometimes hoping on the lips, sometimes a ball of wax to call your own before some heated discussion melts your notions into unrecognizable muck, and you sing-a-song to yourself, your terrible self, "oh why me, why me", and the others only pass on, pass on, forget it all with a hair's length of effort, and you slap and bounce in the hole you dug until terrible squirming leaves you motionless, sequestered in your own filth, oblong in your squalor, obtuse in your thoughts which strike with acute pain, and your once nimble gestures collapse into a fury of childish-longings, with a weak groaning tempest in your heart, throngs abound in the skull but remain silent only to taunt you with unrequited hate. Thus, 'tis a blessing that a new, skinnier notion arrives, in the form of a girl lacking all lucidity and leaving you - once again - with nothing more than an obstinate soaking pool of uncertainty to swim in.