Agent Green Glass finishes a 101 and Choco writes a 100, and I sit here trying to think of something to write. I realise that I have been thinking ever since I wrote some stupid story about the sweetness of salt.
I burn with envy. How can they be so prolific. Ms. R seems to churn out one poem a day. And each one seems to make so much sense.
In anger, I hunt blogosphere. I have to find another blogger as lethargic as I. My hunt leaves me frustrated and depressed. Everyone seems to be updating the blog at least once a day. And there are those idiots who do it twice.
Slowly I realise. Now I understand how the “little” boy felt in the common shower.
I can’t even update mine once a week. What can I write about? Nothing seems interesting enough. I have a few stories spinning in my head – but then I am too lazy to pen them down.
I can’t write poetry. I can’t intellectualise. I can’t write about food. I find politics boring. History repeats. Stories take too long. Films are watched and then forgotten. Work life is a constant. Women never change much. Who wants to write about men anyway? Nostalgia dawns… then yawns. And pets I don’t have.
I need inspiration. Or a muse. Or something to amuse.
Then I read Choco… write for yourself she screams… and as always she sounds candid… and threatening. I say fine. OK. I will write. For myself. Do I have a choice? Who wants to incur the wrath of a candid friend.
So I write this rubbish on my blog.
I am inspired.
I have moved my ass.
Now I move my fingers.
Still no muse
But now I am amused.
I have a post
I have exorcised the ghost
I rest in peace…
I can be lazy for another week
My blog name should change…
One post a week... by a very lazy freak