More like an art in futility, I do it very well. For years I have had practice. So this typing to myself is just an extension of the endless conversations that go on in my head. “Mr. Crick, that is schizophrenia.” . You, I don’t need. Should I be saying that to “my readers”…yea now that’s FUNNY…. neither is it really for me. These are escapees, the prisoners, the undead. The plagues that is spewed from my unconscious and rifle through my daily existence cast down these unwanted fragments, like rotten fruit falling off the tree. Here they land, my ideas, my thoughts, my desires. Soiling this place with my obsessions, stinking and decomposing, like zombies in the hot sun.
Hey you wanted to hear this, Ok, maybe not. But you are definitely a volunteer.
So I sit here pretending that I am doing something, creating something, visiting something. I soak up the non-glow from the imaginary sun that floats through this cloud like reality of my own little blogosphere.
Welcome aboard, matee. Arg, hope you brought your suntan lotion.
Maybe I should write about knitting, or have photos of cats, I probably would be more popular around here. But I have enough popularity, so sickening. He’s a great guy, so helpful, dependable, blagh…sound like Charley Brown doesn’t it. What a blockhead. So what exactly IS in this for me? Indeed what? But then again, I’ve never been one that needs to justify my actions. "Maybe a journey that start with one little step"..how do you write scarcasism?
The art in futility
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