I got on the computer and now all I really want to say is I need to spend less time on the computer. Maybe I will have a computer-free, say, three days soon. Ugh. Can't I get a month?
I'm tired of all the talking it does to me, the marketing, the computer equivalent of those guys trying to shove a flier in my hand all the time.
I need a new template.
I'm at odds with my blog.
My blog and I are in talks.
SHUT UP, BLOG!!!
Talks over.
I can't imagine why I never posted this before. It's been in draft mode for months. Now published for your repugnance. SHUT UP, BLOG, don't tell them how to feel!
I'm cleaning out my drafts folder for you guys, maybe Jeff Mac and maybe some others. That's how much I may have lost the will to blog. Maybe I lost your attention when I disappeared. I don't care, alright?! I was happy to blog in obscurity in draft mode while I figured out a new template and other matters.
So take a gander at Soviet movie star Timofei Spivak:
I'm a little disappointed in you. I had hoped for something more from you. Not much more, but yes, I expected just a little bit more from you.
Yes, YOU! Stop glancing over your shoulder! If you have any doubt about who I am talking to in here, it's YOU! Oh, did you think nothing was ever going to be expected of you? Are you like this with everybody? Mute, nonparticipatory, and quasi-anonymous?
Are you even there? I know you are, but I only know that through a third party.
You're just so quiet. So opaque. It feels chilly in here, and one-sided. I don't even get spammed in here.
Who are you?
Look, don't worry. I swear I won't be clingy. This isn't one of those confessional blogs where if within 24 hours no one responds with two of my best characteristics I will have to be peeled off the floor and deposited in Bellevue. If I wanted a blog like that, I'd be on livejournal doling out friend access like it was my last handful of Vicodins.
But absolutely, by all means, if you are stopping by here and you wish to tell me anything at all about yourself, about your hopes, dreams, fears, as they relate to bloggystyle, please do so.
It appears that I've been a fool for thinking it could have been different. I'm listening to Patsy Cline now until somebody says something, and stops teasing and torturing me.
I'm only writing in this because I like typing now much better than longhand.
I like typing now much better than longhand.
I didn't say I liked that fact.
So I'm not posting to post, but only to write a private journal entry. I believe those belong in ink in books. Because when am I going to go back and read my blog entries? Well, how often do I go back and read my paper journals? Aside from when I'm reconstructing my life's timeline like it was freaking Ancient Egypt.
What is safer, apocalypse-wise, paper or the Internet? That's silly. If there is an apocalypse, it all goes, but we don't know what will go first. I'm betting on paper lasting longer.* The Internet will be gone before my personal possessions. Unless there is a terrorist attack.
Anyway, I don't care about that. Really, it just bothers my slight OCD that journaling is now bifurcated. It's too messy to have my diary in different places. It also bothers me that I just used "journal" as a verb. Well, a gerund, actually. I had been really against that usage. I'll try to keep up the fight.
Sometimes I start to crack, grammar-wise.
"_______-wise" is a horrible construction, so horrible that it may be used to excess for effect. If you use it unselfconsciously, sorry. No offense. Besides, I just did the same thing.
If all I had was a paper journal, I wouldn't have written this entry.
*I need to follow up on this. There is a market where people make money betting on exactly stuff like this. Betting on future possible events like what will be destroyed first in the apocalypse. It's all legal and stuff, too. I kid you fucking not. Does anyone know what I'm talking about?
If I were God, I would take away the Internet all of a sudden, and all of its contents, forever, to teach everyone a lesson.
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