Cunny Booger

Hi there, Blog! How are you? I am fine. Nice to see you again. Glad you found the time to let me come here and type into you. I know I haven't been around to see you as much as I used to, but you know, I get busy sometimes. Sometimes I just don't feel like talking to you, either. It's nothing personal, it's just that sometimes I don't feel like I need you breathing down my neck, all telling me how to live my life and which new cable television program you find to be worthy of my time. I told you before, Blog, I don't watch TV anymore! No, that doesn't mean anything like that, how could you say that? God, see, you are so negative sometimes! I come here for a simple chat with my good pal Blog and now I'm getting the proverbial third degree burns of a catty internet phenomena. No, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just... I don't know. I've been so stressed out lately, Blog... Food tastes like cardboard. My shoes have no shoelaces. I don't get very much e-mail. There are some movies I want to own on DVD but are currently out of my price range. All the people I see around keep on TALKING and it annoys me because what they say is not what I say. My headphones aren't working. My grammar is poor, and my speeling is atroshus for me. And sometimes, when I look into a puddle while it's raining, I don't know if it's really raining or if those are all my tears, coming from clouds instead of my tear ducts, drenching the world in my sadness and feeding farmers crops with my depressing angle towards life.

Oh, Blog, I know you hear melodrama from everybody. I know kids keep knocking on your door, asking apathetically if you'd like to buy some magazines to help their local basketball team which probably sucks and will end up dashing their dreams of having their own shoe. I know you have to hear people reciting the lyrics to songs you'd hear if you walked down the street during regular business hours and happened to pick up the faint sound of the local Top 40 station blasting solemnly out of a fuschia Hummer. I know anime charecters continually come up to you with those giant tear things, telling of the recurring dream in which they're falling so blandly against a paleblack tapestry. I know wannabe newshounds spout their views on whatever the headline is on the BBC, even though you could've easily heard the same opinion from your pot-smoking internet friend Robbie by logging onto MSN Messenger. I know your world is filled with the plight of hapless C++ geeks and staunch Texan upper-middle class suburbanites with surprisingly similar ways of spouting their called-for views.... I know your plight, believe me. I dare not attempt to add to the already torn shoulder area of the sleeve to your brand new Hollister shirt. Looks nice, by the way, it's very you. All I ask is maybe to let me chat with you once in a while, maybe drunk dial you with my views on the state of punk music, or why Batman is clearly superior to Superman. I understand that under your circumstances you must turn a blind ear, or whatever, to the complaints and ramblings of those who come to you. I turn blind ears to people who don't even talk to me. But at the very least, know that I know what you go through every day and that I sympathize, or will at least piss on your three piece suit if it's on fire, you know, if there's no water or nuthin' around.

Blog, what if the world as you know it were a bear? No wait, a spatula? Would you be able to handle the drastic difference in how you view it, or would it still be the world to you, as it always was? If every day were Friday, would every day really be Friday? I say "No", because Friday is only Friday in the context of the days around it. I'm almost done with my first year of college, Blog. I'm frankly surprised I still talk to you. I expected you to become like an old high school acquaintance, where we say on the last day of school that we'll call each other over the summer, and all manner of doodles and fond givings shall surround the comments made in blue pen in each others yearbook, but from that point on we would only see each other at the supermarket, and you would awkwardly ask me if I buy carrots often because there are carrots in my cart, and I would awkwardly answer "Yeah", even though the answer in my head is something more along the lines of "Do I buy carrots often? Did Blog really just ask that?". But, no, somehow we stuck it out. Who knows how much I'll be speaking with you over the summer, Blog; I intend to keep ever so busy. I might check in now and then to pretend we still like each other, but in secret I'll be seeing other internet missives, like lame flash cartoons about George W. Bush being bad at speaking or porn. Most likely I'll be seeing actual real life things too, like people and food and the clouds. Oh, I know what you're saying: "Jack wouldn't turn his back on me for no damn hidey-ho nature! I'm his old friend, Blog, the one who he shared old tales of flying west in an airship made of honeybees!" Well, Blog, I'm sorry, but I may have embellished that parable a bit. And besides, I'd much rather be out making adventures than inside typing about them. I'll keep up, we'll have the old fireside chats from time to time, but there will be times where I will be absent to dousing you and your Scotch-soaked flannel coat in Dasani after you fall into the fireplace. You'll have to learn how to turn on a faucet, and probably how to use the Heimlich Manuever on yourself. Grab a chair, or the end of a table, we'll practice.

Oh, Blog, I know you're not a real person and cannot actually respond to me, and that whatever it is that I hear that appears to me as your voice is nothing other than that talking lampshade... Ol' Dustywinkle, whatever shall I do with you, you rapscallion of the night! I also know that cracking ones knuckles has the potential to give one arthritis, but luckily I am two, if you count my split personality Mortibund, who sails the seven seas on a shanty of whimsy, and thus I shall never have any ailment ever in my life ever. I think once you start typing simply to keep you awake that maybe what you say makes no sense, but yet here I am, imagining bright-eyed kindergarten children, all dressed in their little bunny one-pieces, or whatever the bloody pisser those damned snot-nosed ass-sniffers are wearing these days, reading to them the tales that have never been written: The Tales of My Mind. Yes, Blog, I believe ultimately that's what you are here for, to hear all the dumb shit that no one else would dare listen to, and for that, I thank you, in the most profound sense of the pair of words. I'm actually surprised when you tell others about my givings and they enjoy them, so perhaps you are useful to have around after all. Did you know you look like a toad? Or perhaps simply a brown frog? Yes, Blog, this summer I may only call you once in a while, but trust me, when those days come, be prepared to either move some furniture or pick me and my sullen bottle of Tequila out of the gutter and drive me home, nestle me in bed, and wait for me to fall into that sweet realm we know as slumber... Slumber... slumber..........