In my mind.
That’s the beauty of headlines and blog posts – you can make up any old shit and it’ll grab some attention. Sure, in the long run people might start to see through the old classics of sticking Jesus, Porn, Jesus Porn and NaNoWriMo in your tags list but it’s still fun at the time.
The truth is I was shocked to discover that I’ve written the sum total of five blog posts in 2018 – which is probably five more than the sum total of stories I’ve written this year – and I felt the need to ramble on to all 283 of you kindly souls who’ve stuck by me through these lean times.
When I say “stuck by me” I mean it in the truest “entirely forgotten I existed” sense of the phrase.
One of the many joyful ironies of the blogosphere is that by writing this post I’m almost guaranteed to reduce my number of followers. I’d like to claim it’s down to some controversial text or theme that provokes love and outrage in equal measure but the truth is more along the lines of “dumdedumdedumlet’slogintoemail…new post from WHO? fuck – I thought I’d stopped following him years ago…click.”
So ignore the headline – there is no Black Friday special on my imaginary book. Neither is there a charcoal grey Thursday nor an aggressively beige Wednesday offer in the offing.
And despite the tags
There is no hint of haiku
And that’s a fact Jack
The big news is that for once I’m not actually too worried or stressed about the whole “not writing much” thing.
Sure, I’ve been drinking heavily as a self-medicating crutch but that’s circumstantial at best.
It’s at times like these that I wish I’d paid more attention in Twitter 101 and now had a substantial following. Imagine the havoc my earlier tweet could wreak:
Hey writers! Just shat out 10,000 words before brunch. Time to let my egg-white and misery omelette settle before a hard 10km and then the school run. Gr8 2 B so productive and avoid my kale juice enema before volunteering at the shelter! #bestlife #gofuckmyself
It’s usually at this point I make vague promises about writing more but I’ll spare you the bullshit. The fact is I’m generally as happy as a 45 year old cynic allows me to be on any given day and, much like the difficult second album for angsty bands who have discovered peace, tranquility and a fuckload of cash after their first album, I’m not sure what else I have to say right now.
I still like words. I still like reading them, writing them down, playing with them and just plain looking at them. I still like the fact that smile looks like a happy word if you stare at it a while and that angry looks the opposite even with a sidelong glance. Wasting a few minutes of your time and my time has been fun.
I might do it again.
You never know.
Especially you turncoats who unfollowed me without so much as a read more click.
Shame on you.
A plague on all your rented accommodation.