Right now, as you can see, I'm writing a blog post. Well, actually, you can't see it, you can only see the finished product, which doesn't exist yet. HOWEVER, after staring at a blank blog...post...thing for about five minutes, and my deadline I just made up now rapidly approaching, I said FUCK IT I'M GOING TO START TYPING. And since this imaginary deadline is so close it leaves little room for thought, I just won't stop. What you are witnessing is my brain vomiting all over your computer screen for about ten minutes (how do brains vomit? does the head, like....open?) and it's going to be beautiful.
Unfortunately, typing all the time means I don't have time to think of clever penis jokes or find pictures to accompany this post, illustrating my points in a poignant and humorous way. Also, I've been on at least a four month hiatus, and with only about six posts before I took said hiatus, so this may not be the best idea for my first new post in a long long while. Ah, well, no one reads this anyways. Which surprises me. I'm clearly the greatest writer on the internet (shut up I am), and yet I'm not drowning in money and scantily clad women. Something is wrong here. Internet, I trusted you to make me a millionaire off of a blog that I put minimal effort in a couple times a month, and it hasn't happened. My only question is, what the fuck? am I not good enough for you? Not enough boobs? is that it? That's it, isn't it. Not enough boobs. Damn my lack of boobs. That sounded weird. MOVING ON.
Is it true that goldfish only have an eight second memory? Every goldfish is Dory from Finding Nemo. Somewhere, there is a crowd of goldfish in a tank, and they're all terrified because all they're thinking is "Where am I who are these fish whats happening gotta swim where am I who are these fish--hold the phone, is that food I see?" going through life with no memory of your friends or family, only thinking about eating and sleeping...Nevermind, this sounds fucking awesome.
I wonder if I can turn myself to a goldfish. Would that change my brain function? Or would I e the smartest goldfish ever, being discovered by a cruel ringmaster who forces me to do tricks in his cheap circus so as not to be fed to the thousand pound woman?
Goldfish crackers are tasty, but I feel like a little kid whenever I eat them. WHERE IS THE SOPHISTICATED WORKING MANS CHEESY CRACKERS, I ask you? WHERE?
How many kinds of cheese are there? Probably a lot. It's gotta be a lot, I mean hell, you just slap some type of mold on a cheese and its a whole new cheese. So its types of cheese (normal) x types of mold = types of cheese (total). I just made cheese slightly less appealing to 90% of the non existent people reading this. Or who will be reading this. whatever.
I just made up an equation on the spot. It's a good one too. Does that make me a genius? If I'm a genius, do I get paid to sit and think? I think I read somewhere that if you have a certain IQ level, which I clearly do (see cheese equation) then you get something like 50,000 dollars from the government. Maybe I don't need you after all, internet. You and your boob fixation.
Yes, internet, it IS a perfectly understandable fixation. Boobs are pretty great.
What if my grandmother reads this? Will all this talk of boobs mean she'll write me out of her will? Does my grandmother know I have a blog? Does she know how to get to it? Boobs?
OH GOD THE DEADLINE THAT I MADE UP IS COMING PUBLISH PUBLISH NO TIME TO CHECK FOR GRAMMATICAL ERRORS! GO MAN GO!
