Another blog?
Another ridiculous soul-bearing, bellybutton-examining, dirty laundry-airing, daddy-love-me fest masquerading as some poor sucker's attempt to assert the illusion of his significance by lighting his own tiny little candle on the surface of the sun?
One of them things?
Good christ jesus lord mother mary mercy god in heaven. Spare . Us.
Assuming there's an us to spare. Which, y'know, there probably isn't.
Yet.
But someday, I'll be famous, and everyone will love me. Or maybe fear me. Hey, maybe both. Even Machiavelli thought that was a good idea.
Jeez, I'm rambling. Am I rambling? I'm rambling, aren't I? Is this thing even recording? Am I on the Internet? Is this the... is this the Internet? Is this where they keep the Amazon my kids are always talking about? And the FaceBook? Where's the FaceBook, anyways? I wanna sign it. With... y'know... my face.
I think I'm done now. This is a little like my first time snorkling, or it would be if I had been snorkling naked in front of a room full of strangers. Which I wasn't, thank you.
But still, I feel dirty. Or, I feel like I should be dirty. People like dirty, right?
Hell yes they do! This is America! We have entire television networks dedicated to the spectacle of people debasing themselves for a twenty bucks and a cameo on Veronica Mars.
USA! USA!
I think they're... yeah, they're... that's the signal. They're giving me the signal. Line across the throat. I guess I'm done now.
Well. I think that went quite well. I think the people were heartwarmed. I think their cockles got a good warming-over, like those breakfast sandwiches they used to serve at Starbucks.
The people, they liked it. They feel good. They smile. My people smile. My people out there, my people -- fans maybe? My fans? Adherents? Followers? Disciples? Cult? My cult?
My cult, they love me. They feel a sense of warmth and peace and well-being and every-little-thing's-gonna-be-all-rightness, minus the zombie attack (aw hell no.)
This blog stuff is easy.
When do the checks start coming in?
