Sunday, September 28, 2008
Maybe I'm more like the reclusive J.D. Salinger, but without the talent and the one good book. Am I'm totally not comparing myself to HST. Well, I do have access to arrows. I can't wait for the day that I get arrested for shooting drunk kids in the park with my bow. And no, I don't have a quiver or go to Renaissance Faires (sp?), but I am as pretty as Legolas if not prettier, that sissy-boy.
I'm thinking that I've got to keep up the blogging-things because I'm developing some serious gaps in my chronological documentation for my future sperm-spawn. I mean, I sure as hell am not going to talk to them, so how will they know what I was doing back in the day when we talked on cell phones and had polar ice caps?
Not that they'd be able to gleam anything useful from Fat Free Milk because unless they were looking for bad poetry and fart jokes, then they'd be better off asking one of the many Tijuana whores that I've traded comic books with.
This is why I don't write as much anymore.
Because I am even more distracted than I used to be, more of a drunk, super-sexy, totally Greg Louganis, getting paid for writing on a regular basis for an awesome company and pecking away at things, but not consuming them wholly as I should.
My brain gets so synaptically overloaded, I think that it just goes into Cherynobel-status. Meaning - whatever.
What? Huh? I can't concentrate. Air conditioning and planes and the setting sun and to-do-lists and have to drive to pick up my car