What the fuck are you still doing here?
This isn’t pornography.
Nor is this a viral video, or even a humorous picture of a dog highfiving a cat.
It’s wordography (well not so much graphs as it is words coming together to look like a a graph. For example, since I am already rambling along, here’s a bargraph. lilli..ill.__iil. Impressed yet? Keep reading. You know it’s going to get pretty impressive pretty quickly around here, pretty thing).
So quite seriously – almost forebodingly – I’ll repeat: why the heck are you here?
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind your presence. In fact, quite oppositely: I wish you’d come more often.
It’s just that I’d be doing you a disservice without having things for you to do here. Because, although I asked why you are here, I really know. It’s because you’re bored, and sometimes – very rarely – words can elicit excitement lolcats or moaning girls can’t.
Although, on close examination, both lolcats and moaning girls need words. Maybe, then, when they’re bored, they come here. A guy can dream, can’t he?
Or in other words, a guy can haz moaning girls on his site nowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww?
Besides poor jokes being tossled on a perfectly clean, blank page, I am here to entertain, and entertain I shall.
So how can a guy, with words that have to compete with the brain-numbing alternatives of a modern generation, do this? Easy. Just talk, talk, talk – even after people shut you off. That’s the key to success: continuing even though people don’t give a shit.
By now, most don’t, but if one just looks below, one will see words still there. That must mean I’m successful then, eh?
But this possibly successful guy doesn’t want it to be a one-sided conversation. He’s too much of a gentleman for such narcissim. That, or he’s just tired of cycling through his nit-witted arrogance which he only bolsters through the various conversations with himself and a blank page (wait a second, isn’t that what writing is about?) So, he asks, “What do you want to talk about?”
I know nothing about it except if all people were Pinnochios, we’d know which one’s should be the politicians.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ = the extent of my knowledge, and as a consequence, exactly what I am lacking in.
Ha. Sorry. I go to University. I’m so far from reality that my University debt is nearly – just nearly – small by comparision.
So the question then should not be what you want to talk about, but rather, what can I talk about.
And to answer that question is easy. Perhap it is the easiest thing I can talk about. This is because I can talk about everything, and thus, really talk about nothing. Look at this post for evidence of both.
Which brings me to the foremost point: a paycheck. Considering I said already that I lack the captial to do, well, anything, such an assertion is confusing. While this is true, I offer a second piece of confusing idealogy: this blog will become my virtual wealth. Don’t worry, I’m as confused as you are and I wrote the darn thing.
At this point, with confusion heightened to its maximum, this is all I know: this blog will be updated weekly.
To stretch the analogy further, like a good factory worker, every week you’ll spend your money getting drunk – off of words, that is. That way at least, you won’t be sick in the morning.
Nevermind. Reading this over again in the morning after I wrote it, I feel like I’m pregnant. Morning sickness (due to rambling) can be that bad. A hangover would of been a more merciful punishment than reading this.
Shuffling and cleaning along though, let me delve one step further into the analogy. Although payday is usually Friday, my cheques come in on Saturday. So prepare for an updated post on things, whatever they may be, strictly on Saturday. Every Saturday. Until I die. Which, if I keep on posting on Saturday, and keep having to read such poorly constructed sentences and jokes, will probably be quite soon. Who knows, if I’m lucky, it’ll even be this coming Saturday.
Hurrah shout a few. Or shoot a few for those same few who would shout would be so quick to substitute a “u” with an “o” anyways. So shout becomes shoot when directed to me at least. That is, only after they read my articles.
Can’t blame them though. Even I threw up. Sometimes word vomit is inevitable. Look above for the burden of proof.
And for those few who realize that today is Sunday, and who would rather shoot than shout, and who don’t read my terrible writing because it is – well – terrible, and for those who read it because it is – well – terrible, thereby deriving a good laugh at a dunce meshing out frustration on keys, and who hate sentences beginning with conjunctions, and who hate run on sentences even more so: read the very first sentence of the post.