What have we here?

The advantage of writing a blog over writing a book is that with a book, you can skim ahead to see if the story remains interesting, and if not, you can discard it and find something else, while when reading a blog you're at the mercy of the writer- in this case, me- continually hopeful that the next post will hold your interest. Oh, by the way, the aforementioned advantage is mine. I see things from my perspective, I have no idea what yours is.

Look on the bright side; the mystery remains so. Given my penchant for conversational schizophrenia, you don't know what you're going to get each day. Sometimes I'm depressing, others clinical, often clever (mostly feeble attempts), sarcastic, reflective, on occasion I'm radically metaphorical (likely loosing a bunch of you), combative, determined, pissed, thankful, sad, scared,  but mostly and generally you will find, threaded through my posts a dash of latent insanity, keeping me from going crazy. This concoction, well structured, might make for good reading. I wouldn't know. Generally I just wing it. I jot down whatever infests my brain at the time. Imagine what you'd find on these pages if I had Alzheimer's? If that were the case, you'd probably read the same post over, and over, and over.......I'd be interested to see how many page views would show up before readers figured it out. Don't worry, if I get Alzheimer's I'll let you know, again and again and again.

Do you realize I've spent a couple hundred words and several minutes of your time writing about absolutely nothing but writing? Can you see how I reel you in with a bare hook, only to leave you dangling and spinning, gasping for content while I drone on about ................about what? You chased the line, found no bait yet swallowed anyway, reading on to at least this point, where there is no point, really. If you're now concluding this to be a waste of your time, it's too late for you. You've been unceremoniously dumped into the fish bucket of lost minutes, along with all the other "hook, line and sinker" tuna, unable to escape the dregs of a post that reeks of literature masturbation. I mean this in the most whimsical of ways. Really.

See how easy it is for me to draw a lasso and pull in the unsuspecting, tightening the noose to force cloister, to drag the bunch through my self aggrandizing drivel, holding on to all, even as far in descention as we find ourselves. Me, running the show of "show you nothing" the class of "teach you nothing", the art of writing without writing. This circus of diatribe without content is brought to you without commercial interruption and completely devoid of any common sense. It has been an exercise in fun and silliness.

If you're still reading, I thank you for your perseverance against all odds of ridiculousness. Sometimes I need to get off of the subject of ALS, of my  life, of anything material, and play word games that often head downhill into mumbo jumbo. This post proves my earlier assertion that as in Forrest Gump, paraphrased- posts are like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. Such is the mystery.