I appear to have fallen

Life, eh?

Crazy old unpredictable, totally predictable life.

Who knows what's going to happen next? Everyone knows. Because it happened yesterday.

I'm mainly writing something here because the video below blocks part of this blog's sidebar in some browsers. I can't be having that. You might miss a hilarious tweet about dogging or Andrew Lloyd Webber.

I'm also feel like spilling my guts a little bit. Not my actual guts - that would be unpleasant. I just want to get some things off my mind, and the best way to do that is by channelling them through my nerves, down into my hands, and onto the computer screen via the keyboard.

But I don't want to be too forthcoming with personal gripes. People I know read this, and I don't want to provoke any response. I used to write gloomy self-indulgent whines more often, but I've been shying away from them lately. No-one wants to read what I feel. And I certainly don't want to write it.

So, I'll be spilling my guts only in the sense that I've admitted that guts need to be spilled. The exact content of the guts; the colour, consistency, frequency and texture, cannot be supplied.

I'm not going to pour out my heart. I just want you to know that I have a jug, and my heart is liquid, and that accidents can happen.

Specifics are for losers. Precision is... I don't know... stuff. And stuff.

I've got four Granny Smiths on my desk. That may be important later. (HINT: they won't be mentioned again)

I'm an expert at saying nothing with as many words as possible. Most people would let a little meaning slip out (like so much guts and heart), but I'm able to use a full range of letters, numb3rs, and $ymb0$ to tell you nothing.

And that's all you need to know: nothing. Your life will probably be the same whether or not you read this. But at least I've taken up some of your time.

I hope this isn't sounding too downbeat. I love all the people and creatures of the world.

Each second is a miracle, and every second miracle is a minute (I've thought this through - trust me).

That's right, I'm still have nothing to say, but if I keep typing (at speed, mind you - at speed), something might jump out and kick me in the teeth like a bolt from the black and blue. What this is - hold on a minute, I think I need a new paragraph:

What this is, is (two ises in a row there, don't worry - just keep moving) a writing exercise. You're supposed to just start writing, then the good stuff will start a'flowing. This blog is just one big writing exercise. One can only wonder (and speculate in written form) what the culmination of this writing exercise will be.

I'm still warming up. When I reach my peak, and start writing aproper (hang in there), I'll have built up so much steam that I'll produce a work of art so beautiful and meaningful, I will die and be be reborn with the rapidity of Whirling Dervish trapped in a tumble-dryer.

That doesn't mean anything in particular, I'll grant you, but my fingers must be leading me in this direction for some reason.

(The parentheses and italics here are almost entirely the result of recent Salinger exposure, so forgive me for my derivative breakdown - if I'm going to go crazy, I might as well be pulled along by the shuddering tractor of a familiar friend)

So, this is all the preface to something greater.

Hmm. Having arrived at the end of this journey, I realise that I don't agree with the conclusion. Maybe it's not too late to head back in the other direction. Round about the time of 'a bolt from the black and blue' I really seemed to be onto something. I'll have a break, and a drink of water, and come back to this later. We'll see if I feel like continuing, or deleting the whole shebang.

***

WHAT THE - - ?!

What was going on here? It appears a mental patient has written a load of stuff.

Oh well, I suppose I should post it. That way, the police might be able to track down the miscreant and make him (or her) pay for defacing my blog and stealing one of my apples.