It’s become apparent that Gulliver lacks the drive to make things interesting, whether it’s through turtledove acquaintanceships or Ivy League aggressiveness. He’s recently put a block on all things ego-driven, and will be the first to admit that he has no goal to get anywhere at any speed.

“I do like food, ya gotta eat, but I don’t dare don the chef’s hat, likely never will unless I’ve begun to see taking actions as necessary, freeing me from my lonesome days of kibble cutting, sandwich clumping and marble roasting–all done in my head without any consequences. I reckon my days of imagined cattle prodding, plateau scraping, griffin pummeling, take-out ordering and helmet wearing are also numbered, now that I don’t care to differentiate arbitrary actions and images from one another. Sitting in meditation for the rest of my life sounds good enough for a fella like me, yessiree. That is, at least, until I tire of the whole arrangement and need to unleash my convoluted persona on the world again.”

The merciless cycle of ego-driven to ascetic and back again eats away at Gulliver at least three times a day, typically while eating processed foods.

My Ego Dictates

My ego dictates that I write this right now, and I will not fight it this time. Whenever I take up arms against this curious opponent, I inevitably end up turning the gun on myself. My ego is a tricky thing– it would prefer to exist as unlabeled and free-flowing, though I must give it traits (being the human I am). My ego likes long walks on the beach (though, more accurately, my ego likes having acknowledged taking a long walk on the beach and making fun of me for being so clich├ę).