A complication of introductory sentences put altogether

You care so much about gossip that you dont give truth the time to put its
pants on. I have started in this sentiment for far too long and it had always ended in
settlement. But my thoughts have been driven handsomely lightening up the
ground with brilliance being absolutely smashed and caressed at the same time.
Entirely superb and splendid! That is just disdainful and outrageous. The ordasity
is absurd. This I tell you but my aunty sees it differently.
Take my camel, dear, said my Aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this
animal on her return from High Mass.
Are you in the mood for amusement? She provokingly asked me gently.
My silence insinuated consent and so she proceeded with authority.
The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing
at childrens games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which
is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. She exclaimed with a giggle.
The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
Oh, by the way, just in case you missed the forecast? Dont expect any fluffy
bunnies or fragrant blossoms or dulcet giggles to show up in this crackhead story.
There was a boy called shaggy snoopy-droopy. That was me and I almost deserved
it.
Justice? You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the
law.
I frowned in disgust and resentment hoping that she will stop, but she saw it
as fuel to her engine that had not stop roaring all morning. But almost instanteously
she responded to my gestures.
Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and maybe
the bed was shoved up against the wall, because that attitude is a permanent
condition. She muttered relentlessly.
My anger was rising and pounding hopelessly at my heart. It was a bright
cold day in May, and the clocks were striking thirteen. I mean, once upon a time, a
woman discovered she had turned into the wrong person.
Was this the woman? I questioned myself over and over.
This offbeat observation of painful reminiscence blindsidingly tormented me.
Sweek! Sweek! was the sound of a rat making his presence known as I snapped
out of the past (a foreign country); they did things differently there.
What do I do now? I wondered and pondered
Shadows from the dying candle flickered with comfort on my face. It masked the
basement smell with mint green apple. But aunty rolled her eyes at me.
Nothing! stupid. Just wait.
I sighed. I was sick of waiting. My arms, and my butt, were starting to hurt. I
drummed my fingers impatiently on the plastic pointer thingy.
Stop it, Aunty hissed. Youll make them mad.
Make who mad?
The spirits, stupid.
Oh ..Right. The spirits. Like I really believed the spirits were going to talk to us
on a piece of run down outdated good for nothing cloth. In our family, there was
no clear line between religion and reality. We lived at the junction of Malick great
trout rivers in Curepe. Our father was a Methodist Nazarene Baptist minister ( he
preached just about everything everywhere to everybody) and a fly fisherman who
tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christs disciples being
fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class
fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen, and that John, the favorite, was
a dry-fly fisherman. But thanks to aunty it was as clear as a snow-fed mountain
river and I wanted to know more. I have never begun something more misgiving
with such profound reluctance. It must have been be quite a site. There was a
desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry experiences that come
down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump
and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little
wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands necks. Anything
can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge. The master
of hard-bitten crime noir, made it painfully obvious .You can almost hear the
smoky, whiskey-soured, world-weary voices
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will
be held by anybody else, these pages must show. Aunty exclaimed. She extended
her arm toward the passageway within, welcoming me to enter what promises to be
an entertaining chapter of my life. In the last years of the Seventeenth Century
there was to be found among the fops and fools of the London coffee-houses one
rangy, gangling flitch called oops, more ambitious than talented, and yet more
talented than prudent, who, like his friends-in-folly, all of whom were supposed to
be educating at Oxford or Cambridge, had found the sound of Mother English
more fun to game with than her sense to labor over, and so rather than applying
himself to the pains of scholarship, had learned the knack of versifying, and ground
out quires of couplets after the fashion of the day, afroth with Joves and Jupiters,
aclang with jarring rhymes, and string-taut with similes stretched to the snapping-
point.
Ships at a distance have every mans wish on board.
We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was
the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it
was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it
was the winter of despair. Many people associate this with whimsy and
eccentricity but it is stern study of the insanity of mob rule, and this floridly
eloquent prologue sets the stage like the presenter of a Shakespearean prologue:
Epic Ahead. Aunty was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world
was mad. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of
a good fortune, must be in want of a husband. Aunty she certainly refined the
application of the quality. Her broken bank account and her imaginary fortune
provided a subtle inquiry to the principle yet with teeth behind her prim smile.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing youll probably want to
know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my
parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that snoopy kind of crap,
but I dont feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
Can you find it in your heart to forgive this young man his mortally and grievously
bad attitude? More likely, youll be impressed by and want to immerse yourself
in more of my insolence. Every summer Aunty returns to our village to divorce
her husband... Uncle Johnny.
Well unlike last time when I got too involved and gave her the run around, this
time, Im going straight for the jugular and cut out all that crap about my private
life. I was simultaneously inspired and intimidated. Such wonderful tools
enchanted aunty, created flow, sparked drama and awoke my mind. It was the day
my grandmother exploded. My mind got comfortable picturing the crematorium,
listening to my Uncle Hamish quietly snore in harmony to auntys babbling in A
Minor, and I reflected that it always seemed to be death that drew me back to
Gallanach. It was the day I exploded! The truth of is all was that I physically sat
in the kitchen sink