The Obscure

Another uneventful yet surprisingly enjoyable day come to a close.

Surprising, that is, because of this horrible disease that has evidently come to reside in my lungs.
I've got a cold so terrible that my dad thinks I have pneumonia (don't question my spelling, I am a professer of journalism) and wants to take me to the hospital. I've had my fill of doctors so I haven't yet seen one concerning it; it seems to be a bit better today, but if it starts worsening again anytime soon I might have to take a short trip off a long pier. (A word to the wise, "a long pier" is latin for "emergency room." Learning is fun!)

I came home from work early on friday, on account of my strange new ailment, and sat m'ass down on the couch for like six soul-scorching hours with a couple of books, a box of terrible crackers, and about ten tons of genetically modified kleenex. (A note for you history buffs, "kleenex" was originally a small country that was annexed by Mongolia in 1492. Unfortunately some so-called "explorer" did a little travelling in the same year and is more widely known than the political goings-on of Mongolia; therefore nobody knows about it save myself and Woodrow Wilson.)
For some reason my back is numb. This is a new feeling for me, daddy must be proud.

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I can't sleep for some reason. I've talked for fifteen years and so far I've met a good two people who haven't claimed that taking pain-pills puts them to sleep real fast; and yet here I am, wide awake at 4:30 in the morning, thinking strange thoughts and doing strange things and putting on an all-around bad show for my eternal ostentatious audience, and all I (or they, for that matter) can do about it is wonder why.

I ran out of clean shirts today. Exciting, no?
Bewildered by my lack of clean shirts, I did a little calculating and realized exactly why they had all gone. Apparently I don't do laundry often enough.
I do laundry like hospitals do triage, I just fix whatever needs fixing "a.s.a.p.", and leave the rest of the "patients" bleeding on the floor until the dogs eat them.
I've never worked at a hospital, I assume that is how triage functions.
Anyway, since I ran out of clean shirts, I was forced to bring out some of the shirts Dan gave me a month or so ago. One of them looked a little promising, so I put it on. The shirt is tight on me.
Now, this may not sound like a big deal. Hell, plenty of shirts are tight on plenty of people. But I couldn't help but think to myself, "If this shirt is tight on me, what does Dan, the large dancing clown bear of Antioch, look like in it?"
And then it occured to me: I have far too much time on my hands. How I ever ended up calling Dan "the large dancing clown bear of Antioch" is something that I will never be able to divine.

Are you all reading this correctly? Because if you are reading this in a different rhythm than how I am thinking it I will be horrified. Not for any reason that is any fault of yours, my writing skills fall far short of knowing how to put words together in a rhythm that anyone would be able to pick up, but just because I don't think the words I jam together make any sense outside of my rhythm. Perhaps I should start writing in iambic pentameter. If only I knew much more about iambic pentameter than what it is called, and something to do with syllables... then I'd be in the money.
Hey, dot-dot-dots (you know, "...") are called syllipses, or something. Crammit, I can't remember what they are actually called, I just remember that it sounds kind of like "cynapses."
Oh well, I guess that's for the fates to decide.

Put a sock in it, bitch-tits!

With that, I guess I shall try to retire for the duration of the evening. Thank you all for reading, if you did. I know I haven't been updating this site very frequently so I wouldn't really expect any of you to visit it, but if you did and you read this desperate cry for a way to kill time, consider yourselves doubly thanked. I do not consider myself much of a writer, but it still brings a smile to my face (for some strange, masochistic reason) when people read the junk I put out.
I just can't be anywhere near them when they do it, and I can't ever, EVER know what they actually think. That is key.
G'night, ladies and gentle giants.