Argh god it’s happened again; I have forgotten what I was going to write about. It’s 2:07am and I have returned home, a little drunk and extremely tired, planning my blog as the taxi ride progressed. But now sat before the laptop, keyboard poised for a-tapping, completely empty headed. I am not lying one iota when I say the introductory wordplay I had composed was beautiful; but what was it? Fuck knows. Does he? Yes, fuck does.
Note to self: must Dictaphone good ideas; become free from self-conscious thoughts of exposing myself to ridicule. Perhaps I have already displayed a significant sliver of my psychology before the sparse spread of my readership. P’raps not. I cannot tell you whether my daily daubs have been enlightening or idiotic; I may have a degree of sophisticated self-analytical subtlety to my scribbles, but one could equally derive consistent boredom from my persistent drivel and daily social-networked unwarranted subscriptions. < That was one of those sentences that I have forgotten the meaning of by the time I have reached the inevitable uncomfortable dénouement.
time TIME time time Time ;;; and it’s now 02:23, that is in the AM, the ante meridiem as I know you prefer. Yes, I am speaking drivel about nothing; this sentence is about nothing. And this sentence is about the time; it is late. This sentence says I am tired; I am tired.
So what have I said in these last 121 days, and what could an annoying psychologist learn about my squidgy sub-cortext (if such a thing exists)? I like stuff, but I moan about lots of other stuff. I write tired and am incapable of discussing anything in depth, except a minor surface scratch of the beauteous wonder of the Apollo project. But would a psychologist make a deal from my moon landings obsession that briefly consumed my thoughts last month.
It’s very odd to have such a record of my daily thoughts, and even odder to read through it and then write self satisfied congratulatory wanks about them. So that is me, the writing twat and the twatting wanker. My daily thoughts have yet to progress beyond delusions of an audience. Like when a child writes a diary they imagine is an important insight into modern life; writing with the idea of future publication. As if any diary written by any old spotty-bollocked twerp can be Anne Frank, Kenneth Williams or Samuel Pepys. Well mine already is, and I know this because I is and am very specials, says my mummy.
So even after all this amble and ramble and preamble I still have no idea what I originally intended to write.... What was it? I don’t know, but when you read this shite please laugh loudly as though I have just said something hilizzariously funizzle. Then all the readers standing around in the library and the librizzary will be of the jealous and wants to reads me. I dunno; tired; sleep; t’end.