One of these days I will take Daphne by the hand and totter off with him – into the sunset… far far away from bloggers’ world.
I am battling my impulses, believe me: I do. Maybe Con will stoop so low as to carry my case. And, the Titanic leaving my harbour, GM will be good enough to serenade me to the tune: “May you sink”. Grannymar, your wish is my command: I am sinking faster than you can say “stop behaving like a three year old not yet in charge of your destiny”. I am sorry. I am not three, neither am I in charge of destiny, neither do I resist urge to stamp my feet every so often (in the dark).
What to say? As little as possible that’s what. A few hours into the day, going about my business, and accessing many a random blogwriters’ output glum has descended on me like a mushroom over Nagasaki. Whatever you may say, BHB: Before Con set me on path of Bitch on the Blog I was perfectly happy to just make a nuisance of myself, like your good self, in the comment boxes of other people. Now I am part of a village buried by avalanche.
What do I learn:
There is one thing not so good about me: I am so damn critical it’s ballast. I do NOT believe how much rubbish is out there. So what, some of you might say. And you are right. So bloody what? But it gets (remember, Jean?) my goat. If I could find that gene in the back of my hypothalaMUSH that has made me thus I’d stamp on it and descend into similar oblivion as all those wannabe writers out there are already in. “Tragedy ….” Remember that song? Neither do I.
Why is there so much ambition in the world? If you want to write: WRITE. Don’t make yourself into the next bloody Tolstoy. Why not become Proust instead? You will stay in bed most your life, pampered by your mother and no one will finish reading your novel because it’s too long. I have to be careful now since there are things I could say which would make me an outcast – once more. But, as Con has so rightly observed, in his own obscure way: I toy with delight being an outcast. Let’s see the wordcount: 413
U
PS And leave adverbs to procreate amongst themselves rather than using them for your own purposes
The chattering classes
Tags: adverb, bed, blogging, chatter, comment, destiny, impulse, Proust, temper tantrum, Titanic, Tolstoy, wordcount
One of these days I will take Daphne by the hand and totter off with him – into the sunset… far far away from bloggers’ world.
I am battling my impulses, believe me: I do. Maybe Con will stoop so low as to carry my case. And, the Titanic leaving my harbour, GM will be good enough to serenade me to the tune: “May you sink”. Grannymar, your wish is my command: I am sinking faster than you can say “stop behaving like a three year old not yet in charge of your destiny”. I am sorry. I am not three, neither am I in charge of destiny, neither do I resist urge to stamp my feet every so often (in the dark).
What to say? As little as possible that’s what. A few hours into the day, going about my business, and accessing many a random blogwriters’ output glum has descended on me like a mushroom over Nagasaki. Whatever you may say, BHB: Before Con set me on path of Bitch on the Blog I was perfectly happy to just make a nuisance of myself, like your good self, in the comment boxes of other people. Now I am part of a village buried by avalanche.
What do I learn:
There is one thing not so good about me: I am so damn critical it’s ballast. I do NOT believe how much rubbish is out there. So what, some of you might say. And you are right. So bloody what? But it gets (remember, Jean?) my goat. If I could find that gene in the back of my hypothalaMUSH that has made me thus I’d stamp on it and descend into similar oblivion as all those wannabe writers out there are already in. “Tragedy ….” Remember that song? Neither do I.
Why is there so much ambition in the world? If you want to write: WRITE. Don’t make yourself into the next bloody Tolstoy. Why not become Proust instead? You will stay in bed most your life, pampered by your mother and no one will finish reading your novel because it’s too long. I have to be careful now since there are things I could say which would make me an outcast – once more. But, as Con has so rightly observed, in his own obscure way: I toy with delight being an outcast. Let’s see the wordcount: 413
U
PS And leave adverbs to procreate amongst themselves rather than using them for your own purposes