And then you ask a question:
"How, Charles, how does this pointless rambling concern fiction writing? Wasn't it on Friday in class when you were rebuked for including pointless things in your blog?"
And then I mumble out an answer:
"Yes, indeed, but I could not restrain myself from typing this fourth entry, which no one will probably read, because the symptoms of insomnia cause my thoughts to scatter around like coffee grounds on the linoleum, thoughts which cannot be contained and therefore must be let out in some method; in this case, the blog is the innocent victim upon which I direct my late night ravings."
Now, you ask:
"Are you going to stop writing these pointless entries? Not only are these incoherent posts annoying, but they waste space on the internet."
To which I reply:
"The internet has no limit. It is limitless. It has no capacity. It is not like a certain Italian restaurant in Helena, Montana, a restaurant that displays a gaudy red sign in its entrance stating "capacity 33." The interent is not a fucking equation, not like:
And you retort:
"This is a bunch of crap. Your argument lacks structure...it lacks sense! What the hell is wrong with you?"
And I explain:
"Well, I am greatly effected by insomina. And, it does apply to writing, for if I wrote something late in the night, it would probably exemplify similar characteristics as my previous answers to your questions, creating a foundation for a piece of writing that will look like a decrepit old man. But watch out, because this old man has been reported to use his cane as a weapon."
1 comment:
Insomina sucks, dude. But it doesn't make your writing any less entertaining.
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