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"That's it Hobobob! Keep it up! Keep it up!"
Keep what up? My erection? That's not going to happen. Shit, I'm getting older. That's what I'm doing. I'm watching time melt from me and the only thing I have to show for it is a body growing more and more decrepit every day, no money, no life. I need a battery or a booster for my life to kick start the bitch. Stick one end of the lead up my ass, clamp the other end around my dick and turn the engine. That'll get a rise out of me I bet.
I haven't had much to say these few weeks, and I know all of you think it's because I'm growing tired of blogging, but that will never be the case. I absolutely love blogging, and I would do it and continue to do so if nobody read my blog. Like I said, I used to blog furiously when only two people read this thing. See it this way. You have a teenage daughter who at the end of her day, rushes upstairs at the finish of dinner, dives across her bed, and writes in her diary. She does it because she WANTS to at first, then she HAS to. She feels a sense of responsibility to report to the diary daily. And the funniest thing is, she DOESN'T want anyone to read it.
In fact, if you DID come across it and read it, she would be mortified over it. Well see me in that fashion. I have already decided that when it comes to me, I'll be unflinchingly honest. Things that are in the domain of others, such as what I hear, or what I see that's the personal secret of someone else, I keep from the blog and to myself. This is not a tell all for the world. This is a tell all for me. That's why there are many people that are confident that I won't divulge any personal skeletons or secrets that I know they have. My secrets are yours. Theirs are not.
Another thing, as in the case of my analogy of the teenage girl above. This is not a diary or an unbiased relating of my life. It is not an objective telling of my story. It is not a diary, so I don't report everything I do every day. Such as masturbate. Why should I report every day that I strangled the chicken? What would be the point of that? Or that I ate plain rice three days in a row for breakfast, lunch and dinner because I had nothing else in the room? That would get depressing too. No, don't tune into the station to learn exactly what I did today.
I may bitch and moan and whine, as you know I love to do. Or I may just talk about stupid people doing stupid things. But this is no diary. I want to give no illusions to this fact. This is rather all the accumulated shit in my sick mind that I spoon out in large dollops and drop on my keyboard to be inputted into my computer and then uploaded to the Internet. If you want to read it, by all means, go ahead. If not, well, that's okay too.
And, like I said earlier. This is not an unbiased account of what I see. It is not objective reporting in the least, but instead, subjective. Very much so. I am a sociopath at heart and may see something that I deserved as being undeserved. I may see something criminal as honest. I may see something good and beneficial, bad and pernicious. But that's just the way that I am. It goes into my eyes or ears, then goes round and round through these bunch of piping and tubes, and then drops into the open and hollow chasm of my skull. What more can I say. I have been out with friends and then the next day they read in my blog that I saw something one way and they saw it another, and they've actually came to me saying "Hobobob, THAT'S not what happened!" And my only response is, "The HELL it didn't." Meaning that two people can see the same event two different ways. Sorry. I didn't make the rules. I just recite them.
No, the reason that I haven't been on top of my blogging lately is that I have had a hard on for this novel that I'm writing. Every waking moment I am writing it. I can't stop. It's an obsession and will continue to be so until I finish it. It's like fucking. You get a head of steam going and you don't want to pause in the middle. You just want to pound away, faster and faster until BAM, you are finished. Well that's what happens to me when I'm writing. I just pound away on the keyboard, more and more fervently, stacking page after page with wild abandon until I look up, exhausted, and see that I've put down another chapter, and another, and another.
It's like eating LAYS potato chips. I can't stop at just one. I have to make myself stop. I force myself to watch television shows just to take the edge off the addiction. The passion. It's just too much. And then I realize that its been days since I last blogged. Now that pisses me off. I have responsibilities you know. I have to write poems, and emails and IM and mIRC and do all kinds of shit. I just can't devote large blocks of my life to this novel, no matter how passionate I am about it. I must not let it drive me like this.
And yet. I can't help it. I'm a writer. What can I say.
Hobobob
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