Like a high school junior’s stubborn pursuance of stilted prose, covered in photocopies of photocopies of stolen documents that tell you how to write and how to write at least all right. There’s a need to be bright! vibrant! use punctuation that pummels a weary readers eyes with black stuff and then breaks their shins with a bowling pin and an orange. Without it, what is there? Then you’re all sorts of hues at ends of the visual spectrum where color goes to die. Exhausted names that no longer demand attention live in dilapidated housing with crack babies spawned from “irregardless” and tired clichés litter burned out streets. The prurient spies of “lols” and “rofls” peer out from corners, stepping on glass bottles and congealed “brb” residue that set off alarms and a bullhorn full of phonetic aberrations. Grandma’s on the corner, spitting antiquated racial slurs on the passersby.