Welcome to 2009. Emergency exits are located here, here and there. Forget women and children first; it’s every soul for themselves now. Dog eat dog, cat eat cat, stockbroker eat stockbroker, city trader stab city trader and roast the carcass on an open spit.
So this is the bright light of the future that I was preparing […]
I am on a roll now, and I can’t bear the thought of both those readers who will be plagued by such crushing disappointment when I finally halt this passive-aggressive series of entries and rediscover myself.
Writing online is dead. Dead, I tell you. Daily updates through the medium of expressive mime are where it’s at. And I am trapped in a box. It is made of glass. It is a metaphor, probably. Now, please give me your money.
I am too busy buying out the entire Woolworths chain from the receivers. I plan to improve the Pick ‘n’ Mix brand by offering my brain cells as confectionery, alongside jelly babies and chocolate covered raisins.
I poured three bottles of ear wax remover into my left ear, lay on my right side, and waited for this medically inadvisable amount to unblock my brain. It didn’t. But I can now hear everything, and it’s annoying me.
I can no longer perform joined-up thinking (and I’m not sure I ever could). Or joined-up writing (pens are alien to me). Or joined-up sentences. I can just about concentrate on staring at the tip of my nose.
The awful truth is that I actually ran out of metaphors on 28 April this year. At 8.47pm precisely. Since then, I have been getting by on increasingly desperate alliteration and empty poeticisms. So. Yeah. Like. Sorry. Innit.
It’s a great marketing exercise. I won’t return until some devoted / deranged fan has set up comebackunreliablewitness.com, and successfully collected an online petition of 10,000 desperate signatures.
I have realised that the key to writing success is absence. I want to be a mysterious recluse who never publishes another word, so that fresh-faced journalists seek me out to write exposés on my tragically wasted life.
Too many simple things sap every drop of concentration. Like putting one artificial foot in front of the other (real one) whilst carefully traversing slippery autumnal leaves, without falling flat on my face.
Between flicking through feeds, checking stats, following referrals, scanning search queries and tracking stalkers, blogging (spit) is already a full-time activity, without needing to actually write anything.
Try as I might, I can’t come up with some obtuse, obscure and obfuscated purple prose alluding to world events. That Barack Obama, for instance. Seems like a nice bloke. I like the cut of his jib. See what I mean?
My recent tendencies towards mindless entertainment have blunted my former standing as a redoubtable artistic snob. And whilst some might regard this as a positive development, I don’t.
I have finally reconciled myself to the once unpalatable notion of Giving The Public What They Want. Which means that I will be far too busy running my new photo-sharing site: picturesofclowns.com.
Punctuation is losing its allure. I remember when I used to wonder how to use a colon. Now I just wonder how it manages to extract water and salt from solid wastes before they are eliminated from the body.