We have gotten old. Together we have trekked past the hurly-burly of bad writing, climbed the mountain of wasted words, and succumbed to the exhaustion of painfully grimacing at written pieces until our teeth become a mushy pulp. This has been the story for months, and sadly, it will continue to be the story.
Will continue to be our story, I should say. Sorry. When you’re old, you get a tad narcissistic and self-centered. Look at the earth as an example. For some 16500 years, people thought it was the center of the Universe because it was just so darn old. Damn fogeys, I say.
Damn it all, I wish to add.
But, hurray! More writing! says the disillusioned follower, whoever you are. I wish that it was my mother, but my mother doesn’t have the faintest idea about this blog. If she saw any of this rubbish, heck, she’d light a flame under my bum. This is because most of what I say is horseshit, and my mama was a staunch believer in the adage of “liar, liar, pants on fire.” Thankfully my blog is unknown to mama, and as a result, my pants remain unburnt.
Anyways, so why have I addressed you, my dearest dear of all deer, and why did I refer to you as deer? To the latter, I say it is because you make doe from dough. To the former, the reason is less punny: I have an announcement to make.
Hurray! cries the disillusioned follower once more.
The announcement goes like this: I am undergoing a literary lobotomy. Yes, that operation involving incisions into the prefrontal lobe of the brain. And yes, the one mainly used to treat mental illnesses.
It’s cause I’m sick, you see. Shakespeare buds from my fingers, and I am not even a poet. Worse, I have word vomit along with a black and white pyrotechnics obsession. On good days, it all jumbles into letters. On bad, it jumbles into this.
But, this operation is big news. It’s almost as big as the “Gran Horizontes Tropicoco Uprising” in Havana in 1980, which was composed of out-of-work big bad musicians. It lasted all of three minutes. Twelve-year-old lovers last longer.
On second glance, however, three minutes sounds like an awful long time. To a baby outside of the womb, that’s a lifetime. To me, that’s 180,000,000,000 nanoseconds and a crapload of zeros…
This lobotomy, though, is something historic. Here on this bloggiest of blogs – whatever that could mean – I will be starting a new religion of sorts. It begins and ends with the number 555. Catholicism ordains 333, 777; Satanism sacrifices 666; Confucius wisely chooses 444; Mathematical Gods derive numbers 111 and 222. So I get stuck with 555. That number will be the word count of all my pieces in the lobotomy section. 555 words; no more, sometimes less. Incisions to my literary brain-fat, so to speak.
Thus, mark this day for it is a day of modern miracles. God, if you’re reading this, make my readers saints. They are fasting my literary lipid. But not too fast. Speed is no virtue. Patience is. So be patient with me during these pieces, and they’ll be patient with you.