I want to be a blogger. [Pause for effect.] Yes, you heard.
Let me clarify that grandiose and possibly foolhardy statement. I want to be a normal blogger. No, really, I do. I want to post long-winded entries about my day at work, about getting so drunk last night that, like, I don’t even remember getting home (right?), about going to the local DIY store at the weekend, about putting up some shelves, about what was on television yesterday evening, about the hilarious activities of my cat (I do not have a cat) — complete with photos and embedded Youtube clip, about going to the garage to get my car fixed (I do not have a car), about Big Brother, about the crunchiness or non-crunchiness of the toast I ate earlier, about listening to the sonic cathedrals of sound and meaningful lyrics of Radiohead (man). About about about. And then I would have something to (not too). You know. Bits and pieces. Leftovers and remains. Oddments. Detritus. Stuffed cupboards and overflowing drawers. Of whatever this is. Whoever I might be. Wherever I am.
If I was a normal blogger, I could just. Somewhere. Else. Someone. Else. Someplace. Sometime. At some point. I could simply. Simply this. Simply that. Simple. And then “[insert statement here]”.
I am home and hearth and unholy hovel to a ragtag army of caterwauling angels, wearing red devil horns for a taste of the other, and flagrantly reeling their danse macabre over mass graves inside my head. Snapping bones and shouting. Unintelligible rhymes. Animalistic cries. Speaking in tongues. Your tongues, not mine. My voice is coughing. Coughing from hoarse to mute and back again.
So I tried. [Pause for effect.] You can’t say that I didn’t try.