Why must I disagree with me?

Who is the prose maker and where are the keys to the wandering footlocker that keeps the shoes that will carry me on toward my destiny?

So here's the thing, that just fell out of my head and there's a part of me that thinks, "Wow, that's great and kinda deep and kinda cool" and another part of me that thinks "Ugh, how horribly pretentious, why don't you go hang out with James Joyce and his baby tucows".

And then there's another part of me that wishes that mayonnaise and bacon were good for you.