Thursday, December 28, 2006

Guest Post

I have been thinking about posting. In my head I am posting about Christmas, that the entire Rogue Valley was sold out of dog sweaters, and how great that vegetarian meatloaf was and how many times I gave the finger on the road home. But too I am daydreaming about what kind of daily affirmations I might affix to my mirror for the new year and I haven't actually posted anything.

So I did what all my years of bigsister-hood prepared me for, I found someone else to post for me. The internet has been a lonely place since Brandon formerly of One Child Left Behind, quit the blogosphere. Fortunately for me, and for you, he still lurks about, mostly at The Blog Formerly Known as One Child Left Behind, the blog he uses to help him quit, so I tapped him to be my first ever guest blogger. Yay!


Freud said daydreaming was infantile and neurotic, probably because he's a big poo-head and spends too much of his obviously free time spying on me from outside my bathroom window. Educational psychologists would later warn parents not to let their kids daydream because the children would surely be sucked into psychosis, and of course this makes me so crazy with rage that I've cut long lines of protest into my wrists and middle of my back. Don't ask me HOWWW.

I should expound. I'm not offended by psychoanalysts ruining a concept so lovely as daydreaming, I'm ruined by this newfound knowledge that there are people who do not practice afternoon escapism on a daily basis. I live in fear that I might somehow be reincarnated into the thoughts of another person and will find myself surrounded not by whimsical fantasy but by utility bill reminders and internal debates about whether to have chicken or fish.

Which brings the following thought to mind during a critical time at my office where I should be putting food on the plate and reading about stocks and bonds: 'What I miss most about the blogosphoere is comparing my dysfunctions to those of other people and feeling like I've come out on top, though, admittedly, my fact-checking skills have waned somewhat in the years since I took second place in the Cape Girardeau County Lincoln-Douglas District Debate (JV) competition of 1989. I have no reason, however, to believe that bloggers are prone to exaggeration, and fear is useless on the Internet because no one can hear you scream (THIS GUEST POST WRITTEN PRIOR TO THE ACQUISITION BY GOOGLE OF THE SITE KNOWN AS 'YOUTUBE'). If anything, the only thing to be cautious of online is cliche, and even that can be charming in its ubiquity, like growing to love your arranged bride.' I also miss the dedication it instilled in me, the emphasis I placed on completing my daily writing task, whereas lately, it's rare that I even finish a thought or complete a

In my retirement, I mostly listen to snippets of inspirational business tapes and look forward to lunch. I'm a long way from becoming famous enough so that I don't actually need inspiration, but I'm guessing much closer than the people who in fact exchange their credit card numbers for these tapes.

At the moment, I am waving at the motion sensor that controls my ability to not work in the dark. Saying 'hi' isn't good enough, anymore, the sensor has to know three things:

1.. Do you love it?
2.. Do you really want it?
3.. Do you love what you do?
This, apparently, is an all or nothing proposition.

I don't blame the technology, however, nor do I blame the THINKING behind the technology. That's because while I generally consider myself a good judge of character, occasionally I'm wrong. (Although because I am a man, and I am taught to SAY that I am wrong but BELIEVE that I am right. Or maybe I've got it backwards?) And just the other day while taking self-portraits in the bathroom mirror, as I am wont to do, I thought in the reflection was indeed one of the greatest human beings ever invented by God in the last 35 years. But then later I thought, man you are so full of crap. I was wrong about you. I really was.

My strategy now is to work in the dark. And perhaps take up Instant Messaging, which frightens me because I'm much more naturally talented at longhand communication, where the words in my head are generally floral and correctly spelled. Chat seems to devalue the communication between two people who really only want to talk with themselves, but the advantage, I suppose, is actually seeing the words come out of your head, as though you were a very well drawn boy blessed with bubble clouds willowing from your nub ears.

Rumor has it that I was already working in the dark long before I quit the internet. But rumors, I've come to discover, are nothing but lies that just happen to be true.


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