Tim requested that I post this. I had no intention of doing so. I am complying for his amusement. I've been reading a lot lately and that has a tendency to stir my inner writer. Problem is my inner-wanna-be-writer is sometimes sorely lacking in material. The following is an exact copy of a very embarrassing moment:
"I need to write. I'm not sure why. I don't know what there is to stay. Stay?! SAY! I certainly don't know why I am writing if I can't even spell. Silly. And yet I am compelled to sit here, pen and paper in hand, and dribble on in senseless words; which only further proves my point --I have nothing to write.
Strange though. It feels good to put the pen to the page. The motion of the letters and the flow of words is soothing. Weird. Maybe this is my therapy. Maybe I have something to say but don't know it yet. What if the pen figures out the message before I do? Goofy.
So far, I've manage half a page of absurdity and self-deprecation. Where is the therapy in that?
I think I am insane. Fortunately, I now have a written record of it."
I would just like to point out, that this was a brief moment of illogical, literary blabbering most likely brought on by stress and extreme fatigue. I am not crazy! Really. It's not like I hear voices inside my head or something whack-o like that.
What? Did you say something? Oh. Never mind.