As insurmountable as the challenge may seem, I am not relinquishing my goal just yet. Like an athlete bathes in pools of lactic acid to push their body to a new level of fitness - I’m going to strain my eyes till they are flacked in crows feet, to sharpen wit and wisdom.
I'm going to nibble on dictionaries and thesaurus', till my sentences are soaking with archaic but contextually appropriate words.
I'm going to stuff marbles in my mouth, to round my vowels, so if a snippet of wit does slip out, it sounds sophisticated and not crude.
I'm going to wear tweed and trousers.
I'm going to fill the lacuna of my cultural development with the putty that is Proust.
Or at least read about someone who is attempting to labour through Proust in a year.
And I can't seem to find my dictionary or a bag of marbles, so I think I’m going to re-watch ‘A Fish Called Wanda’ and study the Fry.