I choose to think that my 38th birthday is a good thing, therefore it is.
I choose to think that my writing will see further publication.
I choose to think that my dick is of average to slightly beyond average size.
I choose to believe that what I think means something.
Fuck those who think positively or negatively, their thinking is too small.
I am thinking my own reality into being:
Can't you hear the birth-screams whistling from my ears!? I know all the smaller, sentient creations populating the interior spaces of my mind can hear my every breath. Indeed my every thought is written across their universe in white flames of my furious fire.
Which must be pretty entertaining when the night sky lights up with, DAMN, LOOK AT THE HOOTERS ON THAT CHICK! WONDER IF SHE LIKES TO SWALLOW SWORDS? TOO BAD YOU'RE MARRIED, UGLY AND FAR TOO OLD FOR HER TO EVEN LOOK AT...