Radundancies and oxymoronic rambling

Perfectly poised, this pandemic of pandimonium is perceived as perfection. The pupils may lie, the process may die, yet the problem pushes past perception. The plethora of pious peers partake in the pussification of the American Male. Make no mistake. My misfortune is mine alone. Minute as it may seem, it's mass is misleading. You're misinformed and maladjusted. Meandering to the masses, I mold. Inertia, in it's essence, is intolerable. Yet the yearning yanks at my younger years of life. Fragmented I find my future. Failure isn't friction in the path to frivilousness. Forks in the river Ferg find their way back into fruition. For now, these fluxuations in fabric space-time may free my feelings of self-fornication. I am at a loss. Longing little for lathargy, I let my legs lounge. Let me conclude this conjecture of cunfusion by counting you out of the ones I call my constituants....

I haven't given this much thought. Plus I'm still learning to critique myself with no bias.