First off; No, I don’t have anything better to do. I mean sure I do, I could work on a cure for cancer but so could you. I have a better excuse; you couldn’t possibly be less qualified than I am. Not trying to start a fight or nothing but, you know, if I were you best believe I would kick your ass in my lack of qualification to cure cancer. I’m not even really qualified for the things I do very well. I had this friends roommate argue that I was lying about all my lack of qualification starting from the get go that nobody even gets into a University with a GED let alone a scholarship. That’s by and far the least incredulous thing about my resume (of coursed I just list whatever level of education is necessary for a gig, it’s never been questioned by them what hire me and there’s several reasons besides resume fiction not to hire me. I’ve only been called up for one interview in my life that I couldn't manage to fake my way through with grace and eloquence, and even so I was in the door for a half hour before being stumped. The State of Oregon’s Commission for the blind was interviewing me to run their database. They were very pleased with my background that was, honestly, an unrealistic expectation for the actual gig, all the social work shit. I got to their bank of servers and, honestly, I wasn’t expecting to get tripped up by the technology. It was all Star trek shit. I can field strip your commercial equipment blindfolded and put it back together before you can say “what the fuck happened to Hewlet Packer?”).
Wow I’m so far off the trail I can’t even find true north. The moss is growing all over these trees.
Shit. Huh. Maybe if I --- oh wait. I was going to bitch about something. Hmmm, nope. Hang on let me try bejeweled for a minute …
Ok, yeah. No need to shout out fire in the hole or incoming. I was going to bitch (I am eminently qualified by virtue of doing so) about the bitching about journaling sites (something else I’m eminently qualified for by virtue and/or vice of living so god-damn long). There’s something kind of narcissistic about writing about where you are or are not writing and the problems of writing or not writing and on and on and if it were pretty as an Escher sketch it’d be cool but it’s more like a disturbed kid making frenzied circles with a black crayon on construction paper.
No offense.
Oh, Christ is that a bald faced lie. I mean if I like you and you disagree I’ve got nothing vested in the argument, if I don’t like you I can’t imagine why you’re reading this happy horseshit but you’ve overlooked all the implied fuck you subtext.
Still. Seriously. Imagine if all you ever wrote about was where to write and how to post it, assuming you could stand it for longer than a day, you’d be really fucked if everything was fixed, you almost have to have things broken to have anything to write about, and, you know, it doesn’t contribute anything to the global conscious.
No, you shut up. I sometimes spell conscious or conscience correctly in context and I know what a globe looks like; round thing, blue and green, judges and other guys in dresses have them in their offices.
In all seriousness, what’s the point in a journaling site if you’ve got nothing better to say than shit about journaling sites? You know what would really bother me about OD being lost forever? On my seventy bazillion entries (at least fifty blue bazillion of which are happy horseshit and three red bazillion seriously unhappy horseshit --- all backed up. Oh, yeah and the one or two globally conscious ones) are eighty nine gazillion trillion notes, most of which are very dear to me, some from people who have sprung this mortal coil and though I’m not the kind of guy who believes the type of superstition that we live forever as long as someone remembers us, I am the type of guy whose memory is chipping off in alarmingly larger chunks with alarmingly greater frequency. Yes, I know, and yes, they are backed up. You try browsing all that shit as a .txt file. Yes, I can convert it to word, I could even, um, borrow whatever the last version of word perfect is and, you know, I can convert to any format you can name (unless of course you’re with the Commission for the blind, State of Oregon or the USS Enterprise).
Eighty nine gazillion trillion is of course hyperbole; I doubt my notes top out at much more than eighty seven gazillion sans trillion. Bitching aside and I’ll get this out because I don’t think I ever want to do an entry like this again, ever, It’d be nice to see prosebox succeed. Dude has put a lot of work into it. Hmm, Period. Nope, one more time; PERIOD. He seems like a nice guy and he’s put a lot of work into this and I don’t want either me or you to be cause for him to regret that.
There is no competition between OD and prosebox. I would like to, one day in the not too distant future, see a day pass where the minions, disgruntled or well gruntled, of OD are not fucking self-referential about their gruntled status vis a vis Oh motherfucking Dee, for shit’s sweet and savory sake. I’m not asking if I can get an Amen. You will give me an Amen or I will give you something to Amen about.
Going back to an earlier point just for emphasis; writing about writing is damn near meaningless. Writing about process, I mean the creative process of writing folding into the technical precision of the language is --- um, kind of meaningless too but should be more interesting to read and if it’s not perhaps you should try drawing. I don’t even mean there’s way too much of that shit going on, there is but that’s not what I mean, one is way too much, I’d be willing to take a bullet for the team if this were the first or last entry on the subject, but Jesus Effing Christ to hell and back you loveless sons and/or daughters of bitches and/or bastards comma fuck ellipse ellipse ellipse Ampersand Shit semi colon Ass (which does include a full colon unless one is just being cheeky). Oh. Sorry. Period. Oh and toss in some air bunny ears in there somewhere, the gesture for quotations not the TV top antennae.
Am I done? Hard to tell; which is happier horseshit, grasshopper, brevity of verbosity? Is horseshit happier when there is more of it? That seems counter-intuitive although as far as shit goes the shit of herbivores with eyes on the side of their heads smells much sweeter than that of carnivores with their eyes pointing forward. I mean scent wise I kind of like horseshit and cowshit, it’s just that usually if there’s some there’s a lot and I’m not real fond of it squishing over my reeboks, know what I mean? Ok, it’s not a brilliant question but don’t be quick to answer it. Consider, among other things, the covert horse-pie lying in wait versus a fallow field with large horse-pie land mines. Just saying, you’re more likely to step in what you can’t see. No offense but I’m much less concerned about what you step in than what I step in and all the same I think I’m going to post this; it’s like taking a photograph of what I’ve stepped in.
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