Hey guys! I heard of this thing* called flickr! It’s this place where … where things* like … like where you … Oh MAN this is hard* to explain.
Anyways, I got to sign up FOR FREE !!! After getting over* the fear thing*, I thought I’d share myself* a little more with you. Not that you asked*.
Location here*. (There’s not much* unless you’re a contact*.)
*twss
**didn’t say
I just had this strange thought that I might be That Guy, you know—the one at work who is exceptionally odd, like the semi-retarded man with Coke-bottle glasses who empties your garbage bin while later in the day the real cleaner comes by and does it all again for a higher wage. But I’m not semi-retarded, or at least I don’t think I am, and therein lies the problem. I mean, I allegedly did well in high-school and university, and now and then I get praise for the quality of my work, but how real is it? If I was That Guy, aka Quota Guy, wouldn’t the people around me treat me like I was normal, then later talk about me behind my back? I would never know what people really thought of me. AND, I tend to live in a vacuum, which means that esteeming myself as a high-functioning human being is irrelevant.
I need unequivocal validation, like a tattoo from Oprah saying “100% pure normal”, though I know I’m nowhere near 100%. Maybe a better stamp would be “Certified 10th percentile or greater!”
In the meantime, I’ll be going back to work, doing stuff on the computer and thinking that everyone around me is stupid. But I have this nasty feeling that all I’m doing is clicking and dragging pretty colours while everyone looks on in silence thinking, “Poor guy. What’s it like to be him?”. Then I’ll go home and sing to my kids with lyrics that I make up because I can’t properly remember any of the original ones.
Sigh.
Hello Scott. Hello friends. What do you want Oprah to tell you?
Sep
16
I like to fall asleep with my fat (don’t say it!) orange cat resting her chin on my arm. Usually, this is after I’ve caulked my wrist in some uncomfortable way to provide her the perfect scratch and rub. It’s a sacrifice I am willing to make, this discomfort, one I would likely waive for a fellow human BECAUSE HUMAN’S DON’T PURR! There was a time however when some humans did, ten or twenty years ago—I’ve lost count—and I think that maybe this is my sideways attempt at making a point.
I dreamt (again!) that I was newly smitten with a girl, and that we were enjoying sloppy kisses while holding one another in complete comfort, and I think that maybe this is another sideways attempt at making a point.
Maybe I’m the cat and too many times I find myself running from the ringing clang of the pot lid that seems to land so close beside me every day of my life. In my opinion, the human in charge of reheating yesterday’s leftovers should focus a little less on doing it as swiftly as possible and a little more on considering how the cat might feel. But what do I know? I’m the one who licks his own ass.
Typographically, a point is the easiest thing to make. I, however, am not a typographer.
Hello, friends. Hello, Scott. What makes you purr?
