My mind says, "I am a denizen of the fetid bog."

Well! That certainly doesn't sound very good. I wonder what else my mind is thinking and not telling me. And what does that even mean? I would prefer it if my mind would state its business clearly and distinctly, eschewing figural language. This isn't the first time, believe me. Fetid bog? Show me bog. I see living room. Look at this coffee table, these magazines. When's the last time you saw magazines in a pleasing fanlike arrangement in a bog?

How can I expect to know another person, to really feel kinship or intimacy, when I can't fathom half of what I think, if my own mind is dropping these enigmatic little stink bombs on me? What happened to self-awareness? Or is that an outdated concept? "Self-awareness," you sniff. "That went out with Edith Wharton."

I think my mind ought to just sit and be quiet, and get back to me when it's learned to be civilized and can refrain from coyness.