Or maybe you’re not. I don’t know. Actually, if we’re being technically correct here, I’m a post on a website, not an omniscient being, so I wouldn’t know. And technically correct is the best kind of correct.
Did that paragraph scare anyone off? No? That’s goo- oh, nope, there goes someone in the back. Goodbye, sir! Have fun on a different website! Okay. Now, for those of us who are still here… I write stuff. Sometime’s it’s good stuff.
Time’s just humanity’s way of counting irrelevance.
Sometimes it’s crap.
Every day I have a start. Every day I have a part. Every day I have a feeling I’m gonna have a sweetheart. All you really need is heart.
(I wrote that last thing when I was six or something. Message for past me: Get your freaking crap together, six-year-old. I mean, I have had to claw my way up from this level. Be better at writing, please.)
I like when people read the stuff I write. That’s why I’m writing on the internet, for literally anyone to see
except the large bunch of people who are living their lives internet-less. But even more so, I write for myself. I write because my head’s a little too full, sort of like that cup of Pike Place from Starbucks that drips sneakily onto your pants on the walk back to your car. There’s a lot of things banging around in there. That makes for a not-optimally-functioning brain and quite a few “special” moments. In the course of writing this post, I
- Broke my computer chair.
- Ate pulled pork with a spoon.
- Became hyper-aware of the little squishing noises made while chewing food.
- Wrote that last thing. What the heck was that.
It was the truth, and that’s what I’m going to write on this blog, darnit.
Actually, me, you’re going to take all sorts of creative license. Luckily, you’ve struck out this sentence so no one can read it. You sneaky, sneaky liar, you. So yes. The whole, unembellished truth.
Have fun reading it.