You want to know why I don’t post more often? No, of course you don’t. You’re not even there. Nobody actually reads these feeble scrawlings. But I’ll tell you anyway, because like all blogs this is for the blogger and not the bloggees: It’s because the routine output of my mind, if entered into the public record, could possibly be used as evidence in some future competency hearing. In a way that I’m sure would not be to my benefit.
Consider today’s output of little inspiration flashes, the two notations I found worth notating:
1. (In the voice of Woody Allen, mind you) I am so depressed, I can’t believe it. My reincarnation therapist revealed that in my last life I was a locust.
2. My scenario for the definitive “tragicomedy”: Sixteen orphans killed in a pie fight.
Readers of this blog, be glad, glad, glad that you don’t exist.
