What the Fuck Am I Talking About?

And there it was, that large, porous fuck-all that is the sun. Staring down at me with those blue, burnt eyes and tireless microwaves. Amazing, it was, that it didn't strike me down with a flick of finger, like the child launching a freshly-picked booger at the bully across the room. I mean, why wouldn't it? After all, there I was, absorbing its heat and breathing in the nitrogen-heavy atmosphere that had been oxygenated by the greenery conducting its day-to-day photosynthesis. And that's all I was doing. I wasn't helping in any way, shape, or form. I wouldn't even plug in the imported vacuum cleaner and suck up the fuzz from the sock that got caught in my toe nail and later fluttered to the ground while I was lying down, staring at a star-filled window, wondering how my lost cats were doing. Basically, I was being worthless. Not quite as worthless as your pinky toe, mind you, but certainly more worthless than your appendix, should you be lucky enough to still have one that hasn't ruptured yet.

Seriously, why does the sun tolerate us? Maybe it's time it turned its heating power to 10, baked us like a potato wrapped in too much aluminum foil, and let the melting polar icecaps do their thing.

It's Saturday, and I'm bored.