Oh hello again, blogging world. And by that I mean all 13 of you who occasionally read my words, although I'm fairly convinced that a percentage of those hits on my are from my new bot friend Vitaly, otherwise known on Google Analytics as "Vitaly rules google ☆*:｡゜ﾟ･*ヽ(^ᴗ^)ﾉ*･゜ﾟ｡:*☆ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯(ಠ益ಠ)(ಥ‿ಥ)(ʘ‿ʘ)ლ(ಠ_ಠლ)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ヽ(ﾟДﾟ)ﾉʕ•̫͡•ʔᶘ ᵒᴥᵒᶅ(=^ ^=)oO"
But that's okay, it's a step up from the last influx of fake internet traffic that occurred around the election, "Secret.ɢoogle.com You are invited! Enter only with this ticket URL. Copy it. Vote for Trump!"
I can't hate on these bots too much, because even though it's fluff, it boosts my ego ever so slightly, and I like knowing that even though I haven't written anything or shared anything in any seriousness since February, some robot is still out there pretending like he gives a shit. Even if it's a Trump robot, I'll take it. It's almost as valuable as Instagram likes and Facebook rants about Trump himself, and by that I mean it really doesn't matter but we all like to pretend it does.
Back to why I haven't written anything lately. My creative mind feels like Adam Sandler in the Wedding Singer, when he's trying to impress Drew Barrymore and quietly strumming on his guitar:
You [strum strum strum] don't [strum strum strum] know [strum strum strum] how [strum strum strum] much [strum strum strum] I [strum strum strum] need-you.
When [strum] you're [strum] around [strum] I [strum] don't [strum] feel-blue
And then, a few lines later (because he was listening to a lot of The Cure at the time) he screams:
BUT IT ALL WAS BULLLLLLLLL SHIT. IT WAS A GOD DAMNED JOKE. I'M ON MY KNEES, PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE. KILLLLLLLLLLLLL ME. I WANT TO DIEEEEEEE. PUT A BULLET IN MY HEEEEAAAAAAAAAAD. [strum]
That's how it is! For a while there, I woke up in the morning and had coffee with The Little Man in my head, producing such gems as decorative, chandelier swastikas and the real history behind my last name. The Little Man and I had a good thing going. He had sneak moved into my apartment and neither one of us really minded (although I'm still peeved that he never contributed to the rent.) We were accomplishing something together, and it was good.
But apparently I said the word "commitment" one too many times and he ran off with some other floozy, leaving me to sit alone in five different countries — Portugal, Spain, Mexico, the US, and Canada — and wonder where I lost him. I wonder if he'll ever come crawling back, or if I'm destined to a future of night time journaling, noting the humidity particulars of airports and creating sentences of brilliance like "Had Champagne at the Ritz. Felt plebeian."
Whatever this sort of writing is, it hasn't been flowing. Even my published work, like my TastingTable.com debut, has taken a decidedly nostalgic and distinctly un-funny tone. Though I'm proud of that piece, I don't like that The Little Man took my bizarre trains of thoughts and randomness and is in some other brain's bed, whoring out the skills I taught him.
For your viewing pleasure: