Look, Ma, No Hands! I'm Freecycling!

I've blogged about freegans, so why not freecycling?

I'm free to say, "Sounds okay to me."

Isn't this exchange of words and thoughts and feelings we call blogging a bit of spiritual freecycling?

But is anything free?

What is the cost of letting go?

What is the price of too many feckless fruitless fecking questions?


Alliteration Alert:

Polymorphous-perverse polycyclic pedantry pulsates pompously, puerilely.

Cyclic consumerism cascades communities corrosively.

Farewell to July, and my record number of posturing, postulant, petty, petulant, piscine, postliterate postiche of Pawline posts.

(Speaking of verbal blow-ups, wasn't it strange that filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni died right after filmmaker Ingmar Bergman? Maybe not strange at all. Pretty much all I remember about the former is that FirstSpouse fell asleep in the theater watching "The Passenger." Jack Nicholson either talked too slowly, or not at all. So, of course, I declared I liked the movie, it was high art, how could you?! etc. But no one gets blown up in "Blow-up," right?)