Smelly Buckets

So, I guess I'm sick. I have like things that constantly project themselves from my nostrils, they're kind of basically in command now. My typing ability is waning: I almost spelled "kind" with a c. That would've been pretty pathetic, I'm sure all manner of people would jump all over me for that one. My head feels like it has mud in it. My eyes are tired. My arms are sore and I can hardly keep them straight. So, I guess I'm sick.

But I intend not to use this space simply to complain about the various ills that have surfaced in my life recently. No, blogs are in no way intended to be used for petty bitching and empty negativity. No, sir. Nuh-uh. A big bowl of "no" yogurt for that twiddling peon. Though as it stands during the writing of this particular entry, I am not feeling very keen on life, this does not mean that someday, along the line, I will all of a sudden switch sides and clamour for the simple joys of everything that is, was and ever shall be. When those days come, you'd better believe they will be chronicled here on this little cove of intro-netty space, oh yes! I shall rain down from the heavens good cheer, maybe a tiding or two, and mass amounts of self-aggrandizing statements which I may have picked up from other sources. So don't think of this particular entry as me being biased towards the meloncholy. I simply need to express that which is currently troubling my gentle soul so as to prepare myself for better sailing ahead.

FUCK!!!

I'm not feeling so great at all and fuck this. If I could sleep, coiled up in a ball in a blanket made of angel feathers, for all eternity and dream nothing but thoughts of dancing sugarplums and rampant, overwhelming nocturnal emissions, perhaps my days would be brightened, but as far as now goes, only anger, sadness and gross tissues full of mucus fill the hallways of my sullen life. I need to go lie down over there, a place that I am pointing at that you can't see because you are not where I am right now, watching me point with my finger in the direction of the place I need to go. It will not be grand but will at least give me the pleasure of pointing my nostrils in a direction that is not vertical so they have less a chance of sabotaging my entire operation. And maybe TV will be on, so I will watch it. Oh, Bill Cosby, if your manic take on upper-class family values aren't enough to satiate the wild beast inside, I am afraid nothing will, and tears of abundance shall spill from wherever tears decide they want to spill from as my unending determination for bed-ridden lonliness supercedes all else.

How many typos you count? I'm not going to count. Counting is unhealthy. Sorry if none of this made sense, I let my fingers do the talking. The bastards.