I need to write a decent, coherent blog post.
That is my goal today. I have no other goals. I don’t even have a list of goals of things I need to have goals about.
Let’s see. A single subject that I can prettily explore in about a thousand words because attention spans are not what they were. That’s not a slam. That’s just a hasty observation. About you. If the shoe fits, walk around in it. Shoes are awesome. Being barefoot is awesome. Socks are awesome, too. Did I miss anyone?
After all, my pretend crack addiction is actually affecting my ability to write anything other than ‘testicle fur’ at odd moments. I pretend a lot, as I don’t have Netflix. If I had Netflix, my brain could atrophy and melt. I could become one of those secret control the world bankers and just enjoy all the cash rolling in. I applied for that job but had to admit I didn’t have Netflix. I have not heard back from them yet. See what I mean? If I had a goal listed somewhere–do not go off on tangents about Netflix or secret world banking organizations– I’d not be a the end of a small paragraph of nonsense and self-indulgent fluvering. [I made that word up. It means to meander needlessly and test the patience of patient readers.]
Oh, got a really nice rejection notice. If that makes sense. You were a finalist but we went with other plays but we loved your writing. Ah!! Hope springs eternal in the writer’s droopy soul! Someone likes my writing?? Hallelujah.
Just because it’s a leftover, sitting there in the fridge like a welfare queen, does not mean it goes into scrambled eggs. That’s the number one and only rule for this life that counts. No chicken skin, no weird rubbery green bean-ish bean thingie, no no no no.
Dang it, this has several subjects by now. Bad breakfast cooking, world bankers, absence of Netflix, imaginary crack addiction, rejections that are nice…Ugh a bug.
The toast is good from that breakfast fiasco. [I did not cook breakfast this morn. Stop right there. I would not just randomly throw shit into the eggs and call it a meal. There are things that do not go into eggs. God damn it, there are rules here. I don’t care. Yes, there are people starving and eating nuclear waste dirt right now to stay alive. I know that. I watch those miseryporn commercials same as you, you judgmental horror. You smug smuggle! Go judge yourself and eat vitamins and drink kale sweat. Bye!]
Kale sweat. My thirty-page rhyming couplet ode to my mother’s childhood pets. It starts off with a scream about nostalgia and ends with a longing for the good ole days. Arcs, people, arcs are what makes art work.
“Satanic Mafia” is going to be the title of one of my many books. It’s going to be a Christmas tale, about an animal rescue. The new title, after I get a mysterious email from the UN, will be Fluffy’s Last Stand Against the NWO, which will be a more friendly-seeming and sales-garnering title and attract a wider audience who will…Must stop torturing myself about imaginary books. Time for an imaginary hit off my imaginary crack pipe. Sometimes dreams are the only things you have left and sometimes those dreams are weird, man. Weird.
Okay, let’s end this on a positive note. +
No, just kidding. Oh, the House on Clark Boulevard has officially gone through that first round of editing. I know!! I just peed myself a little, too, in excitement and anticipation and hopeful hopes for a better tomorrow.
PS– the Orange Snowflake held its own pep rally yesterday, Saturday April 29th, because…yeah. Can’t someone send that poor Crusty Cheeto a Cheer the Fuck Up card? Maybe send him a basket of refugee children’s ears or a nice spiral cut ham? I can’t. I’m, like, totally busy, um, writing some goals down. Yeah. Goals. Mm.