Like a Twitter cluster fuck

I don't use twitter, and I love the term cluster fuck.  It's beautiful outside, and when I say beautiful I mean sun out and painting the southern sky.  I mean the breeze of an equinox blowing over remnants of snow from a week ago.  I mean nature's exotic dancers at work: the plants begin to shed dead, brown, dry, crusty reminders of fall and reveal incredibly matched sets of underroos.  Green grass is like, what I presume to be, an Irishman looking at his favorite bonnie lass in only the least clothing possible, on St. Patty's day. And he's drunk.  And somehow potatoes and the Catholic church are involved.  I went for the racist motherload there, and I am excused since my ethnic heritage is like a pound puppy's.  I am not a pagan/wiccan/whatever the accepted vernacular is for it these days, but I see very easily the comparisons drawn between earth and woman.  The fertility in my nostrils is driving my hypothalamus insane.  I swore around mid-January that I was suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.  While I am a psychology student, well aware of the truth in such disorders, I had always thought myself above such easily cognitively conquerable afflictions.  Turns out I was wrong, and it's not just easy to step out of.  I lost all kinds of pleasurable drives: food, sex, laughs.  But right now, I am about to go gorge myself on clamburgers (that's my new favorite vaginal euphemism) and fried food.  Gawd almighty the spring serves an incredible purpose.  Maybe I should sacrifice a goat and dance around naked in the back yard like our Druid friends. On the twitter cluster side of things, some thoughts: When there are double doors, and you walk squarely out of the locked one, do you also feel like a horse's ass? Sometimes when I am extremely riled up, mad or horny or excited, it helps me to put the biggest knuckle of my index finger in between my teeth and bend it as I bite down.  Maybe it's like a pussy version of cutting, the pain a way to control and express inner conflict, or maybe I'm a freak.  Lastly, when you meet someone for the first time, do you feel like you're in a job interview? I always get the following questions, usually in this order: Where are you from, What's your major, What do you plan to do with that degree, Are you in a frat (sorority girls love that one).  I don't get why those questions are accepted as the most pressing issues worthy of being noted by a stranger.  If I were a girl, meeting potential mates, I would think better questions would be things like Ever been arrested for a sexually violent crime? Do you drink to the point of belligerence? Is your car reliable? Do you want to just have sex and skip the bull shit and hurt feelings?

Is that just too simple, or am I missing something