Six hundred thirty something…
Good morning Night-city! TGIF. Which, is, when you begin to dwell on it, quite a weird mantra. Likely for multiple reasons. Vaguely I wonder if the other days of the week are offended that Freya gets (or maybe got) the most props. And also an acronym. Further complicated by modernity’s move to monotheism and the expunging of the old gods.
Also, isn’t hating on the rest of the week a throwback to the industrial revolution. I mean I get that we haven’t cast off that particular yoke just yet and that the vast majority of us are still running with programming we got when we exited the womb, ie to be a useful little cog that slots into the grand narrative of workers versus the bourgeoisie. I don’t know why I insist on using this word. I can never spell it. Even my spellchekcer has no idea what I’m trying to do. Google knows though. Even if you type it in phonetically. Which is some serious search engine voodoo! Even Baron Samedi would be impressed, as he, I imagine, takes a moment to kick back and take a deep draw from his Winston Churchill style Romeo y Julieta. (before going back to what he does best)
Of course I am not a cog anymore (I say quite smugly). Ha ha. (the things we like to believe) Although, maybe I’m just a broken gear that moves (jerkily) round and round by itself in some non-critical area of the grand machine. ‘Weeeee!’ I hazard, but since I’m all by myself, it feels a little pointless.
I stuff the last of the German Christmas cookies into my mouth. And wash it down with the last schluck of rapidly cooling Lungo. Breakfast of champions. But really, breakast of people who have no more eggs. Or Gluten free oats. Or anything even vaguely edible left in their domicile.
I fondly remember back to the beginning of the pandemic when my freezer was stacked to the point of bursting and we had chalk-boarded a spreadsheet in our pantry to keep track of our prepper style treasure trove. Oh how the mighty have fallen. And mostly refused to get back up again. Preferring instead to lurch around in epileptic fashion like a two year on the supermarket floor.
I have no idea if epileptics actually lurch. Or foam. And really, this is probably insensitive towards people whose neurons occasionally misfire.
But also not sorry.
As Joey invokes his God-given right to be an insensitive cunt. Two years old definitely lurch though. And run away from you in a crowed mall. Giving you serious heart palpitations… as you struggle to catch up with them… and then… as you struggle not to somersault them with a backhand in front of all those witnesses.
Not that I would ever do that. Run after them I mean. Usually I just yank on the lead and that puts paid to any escape attempts.
I don’t really want to go out though. It means putting on shoes. And also dragging myself away from my Mac, into which I have happily netrunnered myself. What if I miss some satirical meme or critical conspiracy theory while I’m out there? Out there interacting with Covid and its sleeper agents. *shudder* People are super gross. I mean they were gross before… but they are really gross now.
Ten minutes later…
Hunger has defeated me. Also is F.A. Hayek’s The Road to Serfdom the most pretentious thing you can read in a coffee shop (while waiting for my bacon and egg on rye)? If not the most, then certainly its up there. Of course, its chances suffer somewhat because no one (outside of libertarian circles) knows who Hayek is. Which is a travesty! Well, in my small, incredibly insular and sheltered opinion. Still, it looks high end. Which is important.
I would wax on (lyrically) about how amazing Hayek is. But if you’ve managed to get his far without slipping into a coma… I don’t want Austrian Economics to be the thing that pushes you over the edge. I’d feel bad.
Instead I will meander off into the weeds and ramble on about how I’m tweaking my blog.
I’ve vomited six hundred and thirty something posts into this world (in this iteration of my spew). Which is quite a lot. I think. I mean its still a drop in the ocean, wanting one day to reach the hallowed ten thousand mark. ha ha. But still… that is A LOT of self involved drivel. (And also absolute proof that I prefer quantity over quality and style over substance)
I’m going back to the beginning and trying to edit things a little bit. Make it more… I don’t know, prettier maybe, in form (if not content). And also to proof read (and fix) some of the stuff I written. Gah!! In any event. Its taking forever to… chronologicify everything.
This is where I’m at so far…
I hope to add to it every day. That whole how do you eat an elephant idiom.
Also, I think I’m done with comments. I’ve mulled it over from time to time… even dipped my toe into being this, rifle wielding, grapes-of-wrath reading loner, who lives in his own basement echo chamber… actually to be completely honest I’ve never read Grapes of wrath. (having having read the synopsis once, it seems like a serious downer…) Everything else might be true though.
Comments just give me anxiety. And really, I only write for myself. And somewhere in my mind I wonder if this might just be an over-reaction to the long exposure to the nuclear reactor core of commentary, trolling and the constant hustling that the internet seems to have become.
I just want to create content (albeit deeply idiosyncratic and peer-review free) and not think about people reading my stuff. Its a weird psychosis, I realize that.
I still love you though. Some of you because you are incredibly good looking. And some of you because you seem genuinely interesting. I’ve been lucky enough to meet some really nice people.
Anyways. I think that’s all. Let me carry on pretending to be enigmatic in real life now. And also try and eat my egg yellows without messing it down the front of my t-shirt.