White pages are for liars and business listings

I can't for the life of me figure out What I will write next.
Turning phrases and probing syntax can be fun for a while, just like stage-actors must find a thrill in trying out their foreign accents on strangers.
They have been ruined, ruined by reassurances that they're troubled albeit capable of pulling off a convincing Southern drawl.
But what about learning a language? You're gonna have to before you're 25 because that is the age the glue in your brain's language centre begins to solidify .
And for a moment you could understand how single women must feel sporting the unfilled vacancy they embellish for years in want of infant.
Days and decades pass, but eventually she will lift the Non-smoking sign from the door handle, flag down the maid and fall atop her sterilized hotel mattress to remain forever in situ.

And the desperate act of finding a book or a glove or a car key or a piece of lego you are convinced you saw a minute ago when you weren't looking for it.
Maybe you weren't. Maybe you had just worked yourself into such a frenzy that at the time you weren't concerned by trivialities, except ofcourse the one you were agonising over at the time. But that never feels trivial at the time now, does it?
This sequence of panic, desperate reform and relapse has been running since I was old enough to guess what I wanted. But it's only when you get a little older and find common similarities that you realize what you want, or rather, what you are of capable of attaining.
The hypothesis of your own inner-workings, the tumors and the antibodies you once squirmed over, that you swore you could feel moving around inside your stomach, will haunt you to no end. After all, it is only after you attempt, fail, become confused, and break out in disgusted dry-heaves that you know with any certainty that you're not cut out to be a surgeon.
Or a Sagittarius.
Or a CEO.
Or a fully functioning husband-father package.
Or an outgoing person.
Or anything. at. all.