Some mornings I wake up feeling restive. Restless. Wondering. Questioning. Searching. For what? I have no idea. If I knew, I probably wouldn't be restlessly searching for it. Why would I admit that? I have no idea. If I ever find what I'm searching for, will that be the end of the road? I've had that "seeking" feeling since I was a child. I described it to my grandmother once -- "I feel like I want something, but I don't know what it is." My grandmother, a down to earth, plain-spoken lady, said "Child, if you don't know what it is you want, how will you ever know when you've found it?" Granny was a pretty smart cookie. I'm wondering if perhaps Bono could help me wrestle with the dilemma?
What is the meaning of life? For all these thousands of years people have been debating the question and diligently searching for a definitive answer. Nobody's come up with anything yet. Everybody's still in the dark. Why am I asking you that? I have no idea.
I have a few issues. A bit of baggage. Some bad habits, a few vices. Sometimes I cuss like a sailor. I have a hedonistic side, a light and playful side, a serious side, a dark side. How many sides does it take to make up a whole person? I want what I want, like what I like, and refuse to budge on those points. Every now and then I throw stuff -- and I don't mind admitting that I rather like the adrenaline rush from that. If it doesn't bother me, why should it bother anyone else? Why am I telling you this? I have no idea.
I laugh at the stupidist jokes, watch some of the dumbest movies, read some of the weirdest novels, sometimes get myself into the damndest jams. In my defense, I usually don't know it's going to be a jam 'til I'm already in it. I mean, I do have sense enough to avoid intentional stupid damn jams.
I love pretty-pretty, shiny-shiny girly things. I hate icky, ugly shit. I might tell somebody a white lie every now and then (only because I'd rather set my hair on fire than hurt their feelings), but they'd better never lie to me.
Yeah, I know -- girl's in a weird mood today. It happens.
Which reminds me, for the nonce I've replaced my wind-ravished magnolia flag with the maroon and orange VT banner. Half the neighborhood is flying the Tech flag in a show of solidarity and remembrance.
One of my high school English teachers died this week, Miss Mary Frances Petty. Miss Petty had much more of an influence on me than she knew. When I started her class, I was much more interested in boys and parties and rock 'n roll than stodgy old gerunds and prepositional phrases. I gave her a hard row to hoe, but she taught me in spite of myself. It is thanks to her that I not only read but learned to love the classics and don't today write sentences like "He done got his butt whupped, Pa."
explaination - The purpose of speeches to the country out of Washington.
estatic - When your keyboard shocks you every time you read e-mail.
religated - Alligators that get religion.
experinced - Title of the first draft of a song written by Jimi Hendrix really late one night.
comngrad you - Do NOT let anyone do this to you. It's nasty.
couped up - Everybody's in the garage with their little deuce coupes.
Dear Death TWIT,
Boy, you must think I'm relly stipid. Don't you be calling me no idiot. Somebody should come up there and shot you down like a rabit weezel foaming at the mouth. I'll have you know I am a Putrid auther and you have to get up mitey early in the morning to fool me. If you won't bring me back than I'm not getting dead. Period. I will only do it if its for free, not one red pennie, and you wood bring me back like you did teh Halfwit Prince. He did not pay to get arose. I will not pay to get arose.
If you will conspire with me in this then we could both get sum grate publicity. Just think of the photo op potentiality with you front and center in the middel of a later day Laserus story. I have writ my obit and I think that for methed of death I will chuse death by boarddom. Go with me on this and I will write you my 14th book next week and sent it to you. I ain't worried about no royalitie's since you ain't paid me nun on the othre 13. With this powerful ryzing from the dread story maybe we both make some big buck's on the next one. Let me know post hate so I can get my death posts wrote.
Waiting my turn to die
What is it with you people? I have clearly spelled out the conditions of this marketing plan in as few words as possible (most of which were correctly spelled.)
The above quote makes you appear idiotic. How can you know whether U. B. Munchbag paid to be reborn or not -- you can't -- so quite bitching and make up your mind. You are wasting my precious time, which I need to edit your fellow sucker's -- I mean -- author's books.
We would not take advantage of any "photo op" that you may schedule. We make every attempt not to have our photos taken, that way we won't be recognized abroad when we flee the country with the money your work has garnered us. Some people say this is a scam -- I can only shake my head as I think -- Man, if they only knew!
Putrid Publishing has never been late paying royalties to any of our authors. You may ask why -- Because we pay them when we are damn good and ready! We know that none of our "authors" -- yourself included -- read the shitty contract we sent them, thus allowing us to screw more than 15,000 authors and we've yet to kiss a single one!
If you chose to continue with this plan, your posts will be immediately deleted until we receive the check/credit card payment for $250.00. This isn't a charity after all. Ha, I just made myself laugh -- Putrid Publishing a charity! I just may have to spread that rumor around the office. We like to laugh too -- and often do at the resounding stupidity of our authors.
I got one for you all. Putrid Publishing has been trying to get me to sign a contract for the third book in my series. Of couse I have no intention of falling for your crap again. But to have some fun I went ahead and submitted my third book for you to review. Your acquisitions editor jumped at it and sent me a contract via overnight express. Of course when I emailed her back and told her I had sent the MS to them by mistake she became outraged. I told her the MS was meant for another publisher who had shown interest in my work. Now for the joke part. I simply submtted a copy of my first book to you with one difference. I changed the title to see if you would bite. You did, and that editor girl bit hard. She wanted to publish the same book you had already publlished. The only thing she looked at was the title. If I thought it would have been legal I would have waited until you fools published it and then told you about it. But I still got a good laugh at your expense. I have not told the AM what I did yet. I'll save that for another round.
We here at Putrid Publishing do not appreciate such pranks. It is our considered opinion that once we have your ms in our hands, we have it for 7 full years. Count 'em -- 7. We will proceed to print whatever book it is you have sent us, and will expect you to purchase the requisite number of copies. We could not care less whether the text of the book has been printed by us previously. If the title is different, who cares? It is just one more title to us.
We will, of course, expect your prompt apology for attempting such drama with us. Your tone is in dire need of adjustment, and you are hereby ordered to drink the extremely large cup of Kool-Aid being messengered to you personally by Jessimo at this moment. We are certain you will feel better once you have consumed the magic elixir.
Please feel free to send us your 4th book. If you wish to simply change the title of #3 and send it along, we have no problem with that. You'll buy it regardless; otherwise, you'll be required to sign up for some of Uncle Bobby's biofeedback classes.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, if you were a rapper what would your name be?
Your Rapper Name Is...