Iris
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I'll be darned.

I think I may have to reactivate Pluto, create my own planet and just string these people together like cut-out artwork. I then ask after : What did I do to deserve the additional stool (chair, not the other expropriation), propping me up quite prettily like Lucy, pearl eyed and all, so I'd be nearer my favorite celestial bodies?

The film makers, by their resumes, do the usual : brilliant executions. Looping with Mcs and Alice in Wonderland and I even saw my own browned children appearing from nowhere. Sometimes I wonder if I can still breathe with all this lush of creativity pouring in, in and in.

My foster father (forgive his sublime yet sharp flash warnings) told me : Offspring, they are doing it, everything your own creative scripture had predicted. Much more, they are all revved up.

Beatrice Affectation, never do a voice-over job to Bob, it makes him look gorgeous as if he ain't already (waiting for the rib, I know I'd get slapped for this).

Above all these, I owe one of my cruelest motivations from one writer who admonished me not so long ago with : "Do not e-mail me. Go fly a kite!". The name is Tom Bissell. I was praising what he wrote and he told me to do some leisure flying. Wherever harped portion of the world you are now Sir, I saw your name in one magazine and got muted by your writing position (near the border of Azure, I am making this up of course). I always go : "What the heck."

Anyhow, this is getting sappier, but how else can I unbind this criss-crossing of sick but absolutely brilliant minds? Perhaps, that is my sin. A super-turbo-invention sin.