FutterBingers: Candy For the Reading Impaired

I had a nice chat on the topic of writers block not too long ago. It obviously hasn't helped, seeing as that I'm feeling the beginnings of another incoherently rambling blog. Bothersome, indeed, is my inherent inability to captivate an audience, regardless of how desperately I try to do so. So, I've pondered and calculated and concluded that there really isn't any hope. Of course, I try to stay as positive as possible at all times, so I changed my mind and told myself that there isn't any hope most of the time. But there's always that slim chance of renewal and success. Perhaps the odds of stumbling upon a good idea, or an interesting one, will finally fall my way this post. It's ironic, however, that the posts in which I actually invest thought are the posts that nobody seems to give a damn about. Therefore, it came to mind that I might start revealing interesting insights into the personal life of yours truly. I soon realized that my preference of cherry to pumpkin pie isn't that stimulating, so I gave up on personalizing my blog. Not long after my momentary relapse did it occur that I might attempt talking about other people's lives. But, come to think of it, I remembered that I didn't care. Strike two. As I teetered dangerously close to the brink of total writer's collapse, something had to be done - and fast. And here I am, frantically slopping some weak semblance of rational thought into a makeshift post that I hope generates an audience. Here goes nothing.

As a warning, I've decided it fair to inform you that I don't plan on stopping this time around. I'm not going to double check what I think, say, or write on this screen. It's a big fat waste of time. Let's face it, I could praise Hitler, Jesus, and Norman Mailer in the same sentence and who would notice? Not you, that's for sure. But please, don't mistake my cynicism for bitterness. I happen to love the ability to say what I please and rock the boat - it's just a tad depressing that there aren't any passengers aboard my vessel. But, nonetheless, I've accepted the role of the token starving artist (which I happen to fulfill rather poorly, because I don't feel my words to be art, per se). Here I am, wailing away at this helpless keyboard, muffling its cries. I can actually hear it sometimes, saying: "Sean, just stop. No one gives a damn. And I'm tired of you always beating up on me." So, being the compassionate person that I am, I produced an obnoxiously long entry that not only hurt the keyboard, but every reader I don't have. Yes, it's true. Some poor child in Madagascar, eating banana peels for brunch, cringes every time I opine. Why? I have no idea. Why don't you ask him.

In some attempt to properly transition into my next rational thought, I've decided that the recipe for success in life is to burn whatever cookbooks you may have. No, I don't mean literal cookbooks (God forbid you destroy that heir loom recipe for Chicken Divan). I'm specifically referring to any advice you may receive from anyone else that deals with how you live your life. Except my advice, that is. It's imperative that you heed my advice. Of course, I'm predisposed to feeling that way simply because I've followed my own advice my whole life. See how far it's gotten me? Don't worry, I can't either.

It's at this point in time where I scratch my head and I wonder what the hell I'm talking about. I'm sure that all of you have been doing so for the past few paragraphs, so don't mind me while I join the club. Quite the mystery, it is, how I can rampantly blab about meaningless things for such an extended period of time. It's a stumper in and of itself why I do it, not to mention how. I don't believe I can answer either of those questions honestly. Though, I suppose, I'd be more than happy to think of a few nice lies. I can at least make it seem as though I know what I'm doing. Good luck with that, Sean.

Well, somehow I've drained the innards of my mind onto the page for yet another post. How I've managed to fill the confines of this site with so many useless factoids and opeds, I don't know, but something tells me that I kind of like not knowing what's going to come out next. You might be surprised to know that I'm usually the last one aware of what I think. How that works, I haven't the slightest. But somehow, day after day, and with the rare week-long excursion to places other than the world wide web, I've been able to consistently provide you loyal readers with more than adequate amounts of mindless drivel. It's a job I've come to love - well, sort of, in a weird, twisted way. So, as I sign off an go about my life for another 24 or so hours, I leave you with a word for (or from, in this case) the wise.

...check back with me later, I can't remember them.