Purple Rain
I had one of you question what happened after Purple Reign #3. I also had an idea to start a post with that exact sentence, but none of you obliged me with the query that would make such a thing factual. An important delineation for today’s ramble.
Last week I plunged myself into a world populated by purple soft drink, and me. I plunged in with my heart, my soul, and various other organs along for the ride. We, my bodily components and I, immersed ourselves in the fizzy violet liquid, trying to do our very best to become one with it. This involved bathing, imbibing and at one surreal point, conversing. The longer I spent with it, the longer I was connected to it. But I swore I would not become dependent. I know the dangers of dependency, even on something as mundane an innocuous as a refreshing grape-flavour.
I am not afraid to admit, I fell off the wagon.
At the time of my fall, the wagon was piled high with cardboard containers of alternating sizes. In one, robustly square container was the smaller oblongs of aluminium cans, each brimful of the Drink, nestling together like the giant-sized magazine for some kind of soft drink propelling weapon. The other crates were racked full of 1.25 litre bottles, each one opaque with the Drink. It is understandable why I fell – the amount of space left for my footing was inadequate.
But the most important part is yet to come. As soon as I was separated from the Drink, the power it possessed was cut. The link severed, the addiction evaporated. I was a free man once more, as long as I did not return to that wagon, laden down with the Purple Dragon. With a clear head, I reflected on my infatuation with the Drink, and realised that without the Drink’s presence, I was not so enamoured. The Drink had lost it’s grip. I had regained mine. Cackling like a man knowing he is no longer mad, I poured a convenient canister of petrol over the wagon, and set it alight. I then fled into the night, wanting to be clear of the impending plastic fumes. (And also the potentially impending Purple Fumes)
I am, once more, a man free of the grape-flavour’s insidious grasp. I am also, once more, out of inspiration. But is this factual?
Dammit.
Thoughts In The Key Of N 
Falling off the wagon means you started drinking again. I think you’re two axles short of a wagon anyway.
You’re obsessed with idioms. I was being literal. Then you were being literal. Don’t be an idiom.
I am an Axl short of a 1980’s rock band, this is true.