Were it not for my prolific inclinations toward men, I might know less about them...a more or less contemplative possibility that, having not lived such a way, I suspect might be strangely misfortunate. What this means, for those too stubborn or too suspect to follow, is that I like men, like living with them, even tolerate their manly proclivities to the extent that my own nature allows...but that, in deeds a'plenty, the ones I know generally prefer to be bastards. Their bastardization, more than likely begun treacherously early and impeccably enforced by a small slew of familial contacts, is no less than endearing in some ways, as I've said, in spite in part of the typical male's affectation to the rigid, rag-tag contrary.

And how...were it not for this so forcible distention of emotional boundaries, men might not be as interesting to one thus inclined. As a matter of chemistry...no, not the anatomical kind, but rather something like atomic attache...I think men are specific when enjoining particulars. That is, molecularly cautious, with a dish of the fecklessly reckless on the side. I admire such tenacity, I’ll admit, and the peculiarly forgivable masculine trespass on it all. I have found myself wishing, whether in worship or jade, this innate and seemingly universal social distinction to recollect as my very own. Ah, but unfortunately for even pint-size angry me, there is something still cohesively elusive in The Bastard’s ability to escape being effeminately aped.

Ergo, I’m persuaded at length, by myself, to keep house amongst fools...the sort, draped in their imperial innocence, that let me in the front door and find their lives changed forever. Oh, they try to fall back...yes they do!...and I catch them with their hands in their pants amongst the chronic household furniture devolution...