Monday, January 16, 2006
The New Year! And we still haven't all been blown out into space by Armageddon!
No, the lengthy title does NOT mean a lengthy post. I'm sleepy. It's 10:14 PM EST, and I have to wake up tomorrow at 5:25: AM EST, so I really shouldn't still be awake, but I have to write for my "loyal readers," in the words of my dad.
-Q: What loyal readers?
-A: ABSOLUTELY NONE!
In fact, if I didn't mention a new post to anybody, it would go unregarded, like a very minor rattling to most women. Or like a nova somewhere in the next universe over. (Its name is Boxers, and it is shaped suspiciously like a pair of before-mentioned items. Scientists do not believe, however, that it is filled with anything. Of course, scientists may also have the brains of unintellegent worms. But we don't care. We'll listen to their every word and put as much weight on it as though it were told to us by Heaven itself. Seriously.)
As it is, however, there is nothing to write about. This in itself could potentiolly be a good writing topic, if my brain were running at even just 10%. Right now it's running at something near 0%, and how I'm finding the keys so profoundly easy is far beyond me, because I'm not entirely sure that without mentoring by three adults, I can find my way to the bed, which is about five feet behind me.
Of course, when you don't have anything to write about, you end up writing utter crap. You write something that even people who believe the news will stay away from. You write stuff that people from Mars know to stay away from. You write something like most of my writing. Of course, I do have the small advantage that nobody lives on Mars, so they can't stay away from it. Other than that, nothing's different at all. Literally. And here I go again, writing more and more and more until finally, after hours upon days upon months upon years of labourious reading, you beat yourself to death with your moniter, having finally figured out that you can't actually survive while reading my blog. Studies show that in fact, more fatal injuries have been caused by my blog than, say, all of terrorism combined. Every person who takes one glimpse of my blog begins, slowly, to rot away from pure horrible, humorless text, growing more and more skeleton-like until they become, invariably, my brother, who is not significantly wider than an average #2 pencil. Of course, some people can barely survive, merely hanging on the fact that they have to hold up the pretense they honestly think it's funny. Most of my family goes through this. I'm sure they're thinking something along the lines of: "Boy, when does this part end? This is more boring than reading a fifty-two page report on the qualities of cucumbers. I need to finish this so I can go watch a three-hour, highly informative, video of Blue's Clues. At least it's better than this. Does he ever stop? This is like, the fourtieth sentence he's tried to hard to be Dave Barry. Come on, what's this? This part is horrible! It's worse than the rest! It's so miserably boring that... that... maybe I'll notice I happen to now be reading the chair. Ok, let's look at the blog for the first time... AAAAAAAUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" After which the promtly suffer heart attack and die on the spot. Fortunatly for my dog Belle, who's sitting on my bed and being a good girl, she can't read English, because she's about twelve years old, and understanding this could result in fatal bone dissapearance disease. As it is, her fur is scorched simply by looking at it. If you're wondering how I'm surviving it, I'm technically not. My head is on fire. I'll return in a moment once I dunk my head the in the toilet, and then I'l
-Q: What loyal readers?
-A: ABSOLUTELY NONE!
In fact, if I didn't mention a new post to anybody, it would go unregarded, like a very minor rattling to most women. Or like a nova somewhere in the next universe over. (Its name is Boxers, and it is shaped suspiciously like a pair of before-mentioned items. Scientists do not believe, however, that it is filled with anything. Of course, scientists may also have the brains of unintellegent worms. But we don't care. We'll listen to their every word and put as much weight on it as though it were told to us by Heaven itself. Seriously.)
As it is, however, there is nothing to write about. This in itself could potentiolly be a good writing topic, if my brain were running at even just 10%. Right now it's running at something near 0%, and how I'm finding the keys so profoundly easy is far beyond me, because I'm not entirely sure that without mentoring by three adults, I can find my way to the bed, which is about five feet behind me.
Of course, when you don't have anything to write about, you end up writing utter crap. You write something that even people who believe the news will stay away from. You write stuff that people from Mars know to stay away from. You write something like most of my writing. Of course, I do have the small advantage that nobody lives on Mars, so they can't stay away from it. Other than that, nothing's different at all. Literally. And here I go again, writing more and more and more until finally, after hours upon days upon months upon years of labourious reading, you beat yourself to death with your moniter, having finally figured out that you can't actually survive while reading my blog. Studies show that in fact, more fatal injuries have been caused by my blog than, say, all of terrorism combined. Every person who takes one glimpse of my blog begins, slowly, to rot away from pure horrible, humorless text, growing more and more skeleton-like until they become, invariably, my brother, who is not significantly wider than an average #2 pencil. Of course, some people can barely survive, merely hanging on the fact that they have to hold up the pretense they honestly think it's funny. Most of my family goes through this. I'm sure they're thinking something along the lines of: "Boy, when does this part end? This is more boring than reading a fifty-two page report on the qualities of cucumbers. I need to finish this so I can go watch a three-hour, highly informative, video of Blue's Clues. At least it's better than this. Does he ever stop? This is like, the fourtieth sentence he's tried to hard to be Dave Barry. Come on, what's this? This part is horrible! It's worse than the rest! It's so miserably boring that... that... maybe I'll notice I happen to now be reading the chair. Ok, let's look at the blog for the first time... AAAAAAAUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" After which the promtly suffer heart attack and die on the spot. Fortunatly for my dog Belle, who's sitting on my bed and being a good girl, she can't read English, because she's about twelve years old, and understanding this could result in fatal bone dissapearance disease. As it is, her fur is scorched simply by looking at it. If you're wondering how I'm surviving it, I'm technically not. My head is on fire. I'll return in a moment once I dunk my head the in the toilet, and then I'l
