I cleaned stuff and did shopping. Then I took care of business. And promptly forgot this blog. I had to remind myself that my last blog post went out.
There I sat, thinking, I haven't done a blog post this Friday. Do I blog on Friday? I blog on Friday. Except this Friday. I haven't blogged. Oh. Wait. Look. I did blog.
Fuck.
What will I blog next week?
A bloody good question. Time evaporated. I remembered that I was supposed to tweet about my blog posts. So I did that. The blog is faltering. Twitter croaked underneath me.
What was the biggest response I had on Twitter in the past week? A flurry of activity based around my mention of ice cream. It's settled. I must write books about ice cream.
Not guides. There'll be no recipes. No.
I must write of one woman's lust for ice cream and...
That's as far as I can take fifty shades of vanilla without choking on my own vomit. Or someone else's vomit. (Spinal Tap reference. Google it.)
What the fuck?! Blogger just tried pulling some freaky code shit on me. What was that about? I put a coin in the meter, give me the blog interface you bastards.
Don't make me sit outside your house with a rucksack full of broken glass.
Right, where the fuck was I? This social media bullshit isn't working out. I know that as I am not even being fucking spammed. And that's pretty low.
I'm on a road to nowhere. (Good evening David Byrne, wherever you might be.)
Yes, this is my second attempt at this blog. It is faring a little better than the first shot, which was a dud. People are actually turning up this time, and it's a shame - as the cupboard is bare.
I think I handled it better when I set up my stall with no wares and no one arrived. Now I have a crumb sitting on the counter and strangers drop by to inspect that crumb.
Maybe a fight'll break out.
When are you going to write this zombie moisturiser story?
Fuck off. Can't you see I'm eating ice cream? And my head's on fire.
Don't make me sit outside your house...
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