I’m awake. I’m up. I’m climbing the walls.
So I thought I’d just write.
Which I’ve been doing a lot these days. A lot of other days, too.
But since I’ve nothing to write about, which is generally the case, I’m going to splatter something on the screen haphazardly without an ounce of thought.
Ah, geez. Don’t expect anything out of me tonight. Don’t expect anything out of me ever.
Just be surprised if something ends up here, even more surprised if anything good shows up here. I’ll be equally as surprised. That’s qualifying something that doesn’t have a whole lot of room for subjectivity. Surprise (first of all, a weirdly spelled word since no one except Gomer Pile has ever even pronounced that first r…or maybe that’s just me. (You see his stupid grin on your face now. So do I. I should have never…anyway, I’m digressing.)) is either surprised (surprise surprise…grin) or they aren’t. I guess someone could be sort of surprised, or maybe totally surprised, but surprised is adequate. Like amazed. No one is ever “sort of” amazed. Totally amazed, yes, as opposed to partially amazed, which doesn’t really happen either. I’m going to say that one day.
“I am partially amazed.”
How rude sounding. Such sarcasm there. Because, well, you know why. Partial amazement isn’t a thing.
Where was I? Right, nowhere. Not thinking. Just keeping myself busy. I’m too fidgety to do anything else but stomp on old keys.
I remember wanting a punching bag sometime back. I still want one. Could use one right now. I know people who get rid of clothes that they haven’t worn in a year…that’s the way you know you don’t need them, wait a year and see. That idea sounds good on the surface but slice it open and you’ll find that waiting a year to throw away clothes is not reasonable. I’m guessing you have more than just a few shirts. You’d have to log when you wore each one for that system to work. I can’t choose to get rid of clothes on the first of January because maybe I spent some of my Christmas money on a new outfit. Anyway, given that logic and flipping it inside out, I can conclude that since I’ve been wanting a punching bag for longer than a year, I must get one.
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I did an idiotic thing and took my medication twice this morning. So I’ll be up a few days. Kidding. Not really. I hope not. Up, that is.
A-ha! (I suddenly feel as though I’m dating myself…not like that…showing my age, weirdo.) I believe I have succeeded in exposing my brain for what it is. All over the fucking place. I never quite felt like I was able to do that. All it took was an extra dose of something by accident, something that should be sold in a bottle labeled in very large print: “DON’T TAKE THIS TWICE IN TEN MINUTES, DUMBASS.”
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Did I bring this ’round full circle? I don’t feel like looking and don’t you go back to find out. If this post is true to itself, it wouldn’t allow me to.