blasé for a group of undifferentiated readers

I decided to slip on my blasé today, skimming through simmelean theory, lingering in parts that pertain not in the slightest to what i am meant to be writing. And i lifted it up and i let it fall over my head and slid my arms through it's silky lining, my body covered in its warm withdrawl. He writes,

"just as an immoderately sensuous life makes one blasé because it stimulates the nerves to their utmost reactivity until they finally can no longer produce any reaction at all, so, less harmful stimuli, through the rapidity and the contradictoriness of their shifts, force the nerves to make such violent responses, tear them about so brutally that they exhaust their last reserves of strength and, remaining in the smae milieu, don not have time for new reserves to form. This incapacity to react to new stimulations with the required amound of energy consitutes in fact that blasé attitude which every child of a large city evince when compared with the products of the more peaceful and more stable milieu"

and his words in webs lead to an intricate entanglement of blasé, letters like a spilled boggle game suspended in the air, woven with the bleached sand from the broken minute timer. and i think back to all that i've stored and i feel bloated, not in the selfconscious sense of the term, no. but i am a little nervous that if i get squeezed just hard enough, my skin with turn to sponge and out will pour all of everything i've been soaking up, keeping clean, storing away, on another's perfectly white blouse. what if blasé could be my plaster, hardening quickly to store thoughts in its disinterest. or blasé in aisle three of the downtown Sears, a kitchen sink drain that safely sucks whatever i seep down a route of pipes, dilluting and polluting the local watering hole. i think i'd order my blasé with two scoops of cherry garcia, or would it have to be vanilla, for blasé's sake? i'd peirce it's nose and eyebrow and tongue and scar it's body with Ed Hardy inspired tattoos and something just slightly less than offensive, i'd dye it's hair black and shave half of it's head, thread safety pins through pant legs and shirt sleeves and patch on "like i give a fuck" to the back of it's tattered jean jacket.

ohhh blasé on a day like today, it made sun denying all the easier, and computer staring a little more justified. i think of all the excuses i have gleened throughout my years of eduactional failures. they've been so very elaborate at times that the excuse itself earned me a B+, or perfectly tailored to the authorities vulnerability that they simply can't say no. i think i can i think i can, steam roaring from my hardrive, and all i can get is

"my blasé ate my homework".