I remember when days actually felt like 24 hours. Not like today, when they seem like 17 to 18. I’m almost sure it’s a conspiracy, where “the man” is taking away hours at a time while we sleep, so it’s easier to mind control us. I also remember when Sunday mornings seemed more purple. I have a feeling that when you’re famous, none of this matters.
To paraphrase Francis Bacon, or his doppelgänger, “Hope is a good breakfast, but an ill supper.” Apparently he had no idea what constitutes a good meal. Who eats hope? Hope is composed of empty tasteless calories. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say, his tongue was a complete dolt.
This is awkward. Today marks my one-year anniversary as a daily blogger. I had grand plans of writing the best thing using the best words, sentences and what not. I was going to talk about how blogging saved my life, and how it may have changed the fate of an alternate universe. In short, there is another world similar to ours, but not, where laurel is still laurel and there is no such thing as a yanny, not even that Greek mystical new ager instrumentalist. I have a sinking feeling that the quality of life might be nicer there.
Before I talk about how narcissism is slowly destroying our society, I would like to talk about what makes me better than most of the world.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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