Yuk, yuk, yuk!

I don't know. I don't know. Why me?

I'm not certain of much. One thing is certain. Short sentences rock. Here's how:

I feel everything. Always. I'm anything but paralyzed. Don't stick me. That hurts. I can't talk. This doesn't mean I'm dumb. I have retarded digestion. Again, not dumb. I can't walk. I would. My arms are not useless. They are counterweights. If I itch, oh well. If I hurt, oh hell. If not for Amy, oh no. My skills? Naught. My dependency? All in. The kids? All around. You assess my condition. I won't. My neck grows weaker. I require yet more support. My future? God, don't ask my doctors! I'm supported by everybody, everything. Gravity is my enemy. I have no weapons of self destruction. My weight is Amy's burden.

See what I mean? My problem is this:

my thoughts are long, combining, intertwined vexes of complicated mechanisms luring me to and fro through a slowly swirling vortex of lateral convictions, constantly conflicting with any singleness of coherent expression.

Say that in five words or less, smarty breeches!

I correct myself. Short sentences suck.