Last time I tried a free writing experiwosname I wasted a whole bunch of time (mine and yours) going on about useless prompts I’d been given as part of the let’s do a search on google for stuff to write about adventure I’d embarked upon.
No such frippery this time.
Unless you count the whole recapping past blogs thing.
But you’re not that pedantic, right?
The clock is ticking. Not literally as that would be highly distracting but tempus is most certainly fugiting its way down in sleek iPhone fashion (it’s only the 4S – don’t get too excited). I suspect the table will start rumbling in whatever’s left of four minutes time and wake the kids.
I’m not waiting for it though. I hate waiting. Waiting rooms in particular. They should actually be called weighting rooms as I’m convinced that the very essence of time takes on physical mass and starts pressing down on you on groaning waves from the moment you sit down. Assuming there’s seat. Which there never is. The only thing that stops the whole place from collapsing into some localised but highly effective black hole is the counter-push of shit second-hand magazines placed in a seemingly haphazard (but universally aligned) fashion upon dreary, forlorn occasional tables balancing the whole cosmic event.
Time’s up but I’m going to carry on as I’m having fun. As are we I hear you cry in dulcet harmonies which may or may not be voices in my head. I’m going to err on the side of arrogance and assume it’s the former and that you can barely contain your excitement as to where this is going to go next.
Backwards. That’s where. Back to occasional tables. I mentioned them earlier but if I’m honest I have no idea what makes an occasional table occasional. What differentiates it from a coffee table? Do they come nested? And, most importantly, what do they do when they aren’t being tables, which, in all truth, would appear to be the far greater part of their existence?
There’s probably a point to all this. Someone can read this, dissect it, resect it and feed it to insects before casting down a damning verdict on the state of my Tuesday brain. I can only hope they see no need to ask me uncomfortable questions about my childhood relationship with my mother.
Eleven minutes. Somewhere near four hundred words. Do the math. The answer is irrelevant but it’ll just take your mind off me for the split second I need to worm my magic into your brain and leave you addicted to the maddening nonsense language I call blog.
Header image: By Russell Lee – U.S. National Archives and Records Administration, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17047040