Hello, I rarely blog.
That shows that I’m not afraid of blogging, that I am capable of blogging, and most importantly that I can be trusted to do so in moderation.
I’m quite aware that this is too small for adults, now that it’s been scaled to fit my blog.
The other day, I was walking along a cloister, and I passed a limping security guard muttering about how it was at the time “too bloody early in the morning” – though it was in fact early afternoon. More notable was that he was followed at a short distance by a short (5′7″-ish) Indian man who looked very much like a dark Leon Trotsky.
This doesn’t go anywhere; that’s it.
I had a dream the other day, in which the rear tyre of my bicycle was flat. The satisfaction you glean from this blog is like some unique drug, it’s dreamshit. I just conveyed to you an entire dream in that one sentence – and not in such a way that you’d think Martin Luther King Jr. was unfamiliar with punctuation. Oh, in my dream I kept forgetting that the tyre was flat, and I’d notice en route, and worry that I was damaging the rim.
More recently, I had a dream which may have begun with someone not entirely unlike Stephen Fry, and ended with me feeling profoundly inadequate. And it had nothing to do with him, though it easily could have. Stephen Fry makes us all feel inadequate, deep down – but only during our waking hours.
I’m well into reading the third last Hornblower book, and while I thirst for more, I’m also afraid of finishing the series. C.S. Forester died 42 years ago, and I have no hopes of more. I shed non-Euclidean tears t_t, they curve with sadness. You’ve never wept Bézier curves. Isaac Asimov’s estate authorised three Foundation novels from three of today’s respected Science Fiction authors – and we know how they turned out.
My hands are still very warm, as they have been all year. We are in late spring, and I am not looking forward to the sweltering heat and swarming flies of summer. Clare is escaping to Japan, and I will be all Clareless and alone for two months! D:
I’m plotting to hide in her suitcase or disguise myself as her mother, but there are several other people with designs on her luggage, and I’m too tall and hirsute to be her mum. Also, I can’t speak Japanese. She objects strongly to me selling a kidney, so I’ll be down here, while she’s in the country responsible for Iron Chef.
If we swing away from organ trafficking and dreams (even the one I had at age four where I fell through a manhole down a long tunnel into my own bed through the hatch in the ceiling), I can return to discussing this blog, or perhaps blogging in general. To quote a demotivator, “Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.”
Also, Fi. Fi blogs a lot. If I had a dollar every time she posted a blog, I’d have $202 from the last 4.33 months. At that rate, it would be $559.82 a year, which is far far below a taxable income. But as an effortless supplement to any legal wage, it would be lovely. I’ve noticed a slowing in the last couple of months – perhaps she has less to say, or perhaps she is being distracted by less worthy things such as her schooling, twitter, and her boyfriend. N’awwwww.
I can ramble all I like. But I won’t do it through that wretched mouthpiece that is twitter any more than fortnightly. That’s what you get for slamming down your metaphorical hobnailed boot at 140 characters.
My blog. My blog does not see me often, nor does it see many readers.
It does get a strange selection of Google search traffic, though. I’ve taken this from my WordPress dashboard:
