What I'm To Do

No, I do not miss you. Neither him. Her either. The best and worst of times are past, now I seek to do it all over again through my own accord. I do not miss that kiss, nor do I miss your glasses, nor do I miss your ambition or your admiration for my philosophical-political outlook. To you, I was the next Karl Marx, to myself I was and am myself!

All is over, the party is over. So is the funeral. West has fallen! And whatnot. I know what I will do should I see you again: him, you, her, or those others. I should like to cave your face in. Give you a kiss on the cheek. Return you that sweater you gave me. Read to you my newest political-philosophical works. To thank you for giving me that bike and for your generous hospitality. To run you over. To get you some McDonalds before I knock your teeth in, laughing as you choke on your own teeth! All this I want to do to the many I met and known, though not all reserved for each equally. All are equal in that I am past the past. They are irrelevant. 

Should I seek my revenge, I shall do so under my own conditions. I am civilizing the mind, making savage the body. I am disciplining the HELL out of myself. Next time you see me: one punch will do you in. Next time you see me: I will propose to you, my beloved woman. 

So much to do; and so much that depends upon happenchance.