Richards lept from the icy ledge head first into the mammaries of the molusc armed only with a rolled up copy of the Barnet FC fanzine, swinging violently, eyes closed.
The molusc ate him. The end.
…
Good GOD I’m bored.
20six is once again on the fritz, as is my Yahoo! Mail and I need my fix of on-line shenanigans.
But I’m not use to this Friendster blog set-up at all. It’s… different. Less colorful. Less simplified. It feels too much like I’m filling a damn form.
But I need my fix.
Blogging has steadily grown into an intense addiction on my part. Whenever I can, I’ll subject the on-line community with ramblings and droppings of shit-pearls from my diseased brain.
I have a rash, you know. On my arm. Aliens gave it to me.
Is it a need to tell the world all my secrets? Is it a means of getting attention? I haven’t a clue. I just like writing, and blogging means that someone might read it.
Emphasis on might.
I guess there’s nothing a writer would want more than for someone to read what they have written, even if it’s the scribblings of a madman scrambled and mumbled and making no sense at all like a cat on a keyboard.
Sprackatoa loghia schnoo.
This is the 21st century, bub. We like to type.
I’m listening to Kermit the Frog right now. Why the fuck am I listening to Kermit? What’s Kermit doing on my iTunes? When did I put it there?
Why’s he going on a bout a fucking rainbow?
And where’s that accent from? Minesota? Maybe. Maybe even as far North as Canada.
Imagine Kermit saying, ‘hey’.
Or ‘aboot’.
