empty calories

If one stands on a paper plate long enough, he rightfully begins to fancy himself an entrée at a picnic. But whether that turns out to be barbecued chicken or potato salad is all a matter of conjecture. Personally, I prefer a tender rack of pork ribs seasoned just so with a tangy sauce and a hint of cinnamon but it's a lot of effort for very little meat.
Read into this what you will and I will write into it, wholly subscribing to the manifesto that the words will seek their own level and create meaning where a blank page, or screen existed mere moments before. I never met an empty space or jigger that couldn't be filled with something or other.
A friend just this minute after reading my lead paragraph commented that I am the kind of person who would design an outfit around a shoe or accessory or seek out an event in need of cause.
This in turn made me begin to ponder exactly how long I could get away with writing about nothing in particular, rambling on towards an illogical conclusion built upon a faulty premise that never existed in the first place. Was I becoming the literary equivalent of a Seinfeld episode; a box of Cracker-Jacks without the prize? Allow me to get 25 words in edgewise; there truly is a grain of substance in this shell of a story, but whether it will yield a pearl has yet to be determined.
While I was originally going to speak about personal virtues, and moral dilemmas, and intestinal fortitude I instead got sidetracked by the process rather than the subject matter.
True, much has happened since my last foray onto the fields of Gettys-blurb, and much will occur in the years four-score hence, but this is neither the time nor the consecrated ground to spill all the impertinent details of the day-to-day.
Life is indeed a buffet, a picnic, a portable feast I've heard it called.
Sometimes what you put on your plate is fulfilling. Sometimes it gives you indigestion. And yes, sometimes the menu flat out chooses you.
Seconds anyone?