Wednesday, October 26, 2005
My stamina when it comes to writing fiction is something akin to that guy hanging out on the beach and then the big buff dude comes up and throws sand on him and then the dude has to look in a magazine for that old juicinator guy’s getting buff system. I mean, the before, not the after. Prolly a matter of discipline. It’s like I’m racing to a point where I can wrap up a thought or put in a segue and then it’s like, hmmm, let’s count the words and validate this and then type out some bullshit analyzing it to yourself and then post it on the innernet? Yeah, that’s real productive.
Sheesh. So anyway, gawd the convos I have with people when I get overly crunked should really be illegal. I mean, I guess it’s true for pigeons as well as falcons, I mean, no one can pull brilliance from a gem full of carpal tunneled infractions, but still, I mean, a certain degree of antithesis of idiocy you would think has to be maintained in some way shape or form. Or not.
This is nothing of the current framework just something I was reminded of today. I find it actually hilarious in that luckily usually you’re, er, I’m, either around people who are metaphysically down enough that you’re not too concerned, ie, a good personality test possibly, or else they’re such randoms that you cling to the hope you’ll never bump into them again and have to explain why you thought they knew that guy named after the dog in that cartoon. Sigh with a side of plankton, y’know, a show of respect to the monk seal sect.