Autobiography of An Atmosphere

I am a party animal, my heritage is mixed quite content to lounge about when conditions remain fixed. Suppose that’s the nobility which Krypton must provide, maintaining stiff upper lip when I’m all buzzed inside. Then too, I’m mostly nitrogen, which is very stable, tamping volatility of oxygen: it’s able to combine with hydrogen (that’s also in my make up). Uncontrolled? Oh that would lead to an explosive break up. Carbon Dioxide? Its percentage varies night and day: vegetative respiration, or so the boffins say. I wonder why I don’t glow multicoloured in a storm: my neon, argon, radon being Vegas lighting norm. If I had more Helium the humans would sound squeaky. I imagine the attraction of that chap Enrique Would suffer greatly from affliction. He’d become mundane, and prove downright offensive if I gave him more methane. I’ve also Nitrogen Oxide, not Nitrous NO2, and a soupçon of ozone which had once protected you from harmful rays from Out There much more than now is measured. It seems that humans cannot see what really should be treasured. I’m moved by friction of the Earth and pressure off the bat while Coriolis effect pushes me this way and that: north and south of the equator, the opposite I spin. Any other speculations, my friends, are simply wind.