Kevin the centurion, the block chop centennial; I’d like to thank my family, my friends, and I’d like to thank most of all God and Jesus, wait wait, fuck that; it’s all me. I did it. If Jesus was so great he should have blogged about it, if he’d come today he’d have reached a whole nation, Israel 4BC had no mass communication. Huzzah for me; all praise me.
But... what should I pretend to be annoyed about today? Work, adverts, pop music or food? Actually none of these things are really bothering me today, and pretending is just too much effort. I’m as happy as a baby in custard, warm as a bedbug and settled as a slug under the bin lid. What have I got to complain about? I live in a prosperous country that continues to support its population relatively safely and happily even during a minor 'major' economical downturn. I don’t live in 1940s Germany, 1990s Yugoslavia, or contemporary Zimbabwe; so saying I’ve not got much to gripe about feels like a grotesque understatement.
I went to work, ate at MacDonald’s, and then watched X-Factor whilst wearing Sonic the Hedgehog pyjamas. Tschah, what am I like!? Whatever; nobody cares. I like Katie Waissel; she’s lovely. Who’s writing this? Not me certainly. Someone else is in my head liking pop star wannabes, eating junk and working in the minimum wage service industry, and you may ask yourself, how did I get here? Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down... water flowing underground ... into the blue again after the money’s gone ... once in a lifetime, water flowing underground. You may ask yourself, how do I work this?
One hundred days of bloggitude and what has changed? Perhaps I can write a little better, but do I write more? The resounding answer is ish. I write a littleish moreish. Certainly the blog every day; but many days it is all I write. Other days, yes, the blog is a nice warm up for writing a little short story here, a long email there, a stab at a chapter or a few lines of dialogue. So often however the blog is a final elongated yawn at bedtime, a croaky, droopy dollop of prose, like enforced inclusion in a mass lullaby.
What a shame that on this milestone day (the arbitrary nature of which would be trite to mention) my writing effort seems to have abandoned me. Complete thoughts will not form; from one sentence to the next I forget what I have written. No writerly intention is presenting itself, and no interweaving threads are being drawn together. To put it simply what a load of shit. And who am I trying to impress? Only myself? Not really; I’m just trying to exercise my fingers. Taking my digits for a walk. Down the garden path, around the block, stopping to allow them to sniff a lamppost and deposit a pile of shit. I pick said shit up in a plastic bag, and the walk continues home again. And in that bag of shit is one blog with the number 100 sprinkled across it in sparkling shards of powdered glass.