moron email

Email. Seriously, here's what it's like. You are in the cobblestone area in front of Notre Dame de Paris, and it's really crowded with tourists and a few Parisians, and you spot a Bulgarian diplomat you've read about (you think) about 50 meters away, and you yell "Hey Sergei! SSSUP!?!" And of course Sergei, if it even is him, doesn't hear you, doesn't respond, etc. Now you can choose to approach closer to Sergei, and if you get by his bodyguard (he only has one, he's Bulgarian), then you can wave an arm, attempt to get his attention and repeat your question. But then, you see, it's a lot less like sending an email. Email is more like yelling across a crowded square in a big city. And by golly you will get ignored a lot. Except maybe not by those folks you are close to who happen to really love to "communicate" by email.
But, crap, what if they're bad writers? Like most writers. Then, when you reply, you mostly just say "Whaaa?" In fact perhaps ""Whaaa??" should be an automatic blanket reply to ALL email. Easy to make that happen, I think.
Hey. Force people to talk to you. Or just hide out and watch TV or practice unpleasant bop tunes. That's what I do.
And I try to help people.
In the fog. In the square. Let the diplomats be.

emptiness

is when the bottle is upside down, and not a drop drops out

is when you don't hurt there, but there instead, but not really there

is when you return to blogging, because you can just copy/paste yesterday's journal entry to make today's

is when you think you've disappointed people, but you really know you haven't

because they don't care

the world does not revolve around you. It revolves around its center. Which is far from empty

is when your car stops at a red light and won't go any farther

is when you flush, not with embarrassment

is when your artery is nicked, and you just stand there til you fall down

is when there is no sound

no light

no texture

no odor

no flying roaches

it is very very beautiful here

and no one's feelings are hurt

I got an email

Meaningless statement. Or, at the very least, an odd use of the verb "got." I got a hot dog implies mustard. I got high, other condiments. I got married, rings. When you get an email, you don't get mustard or other condiments, nor rings. Usually you got nothing. I know I am not alone in dreading the morning ritual of opening my mail program. Urban dictionary (gotta love the urban dictionary) has this to say au sujet: "Once an efficient and fast method of communication and message transferring, now a way of harassing Internet users with spam, credit card/insurance offers, porn links, and "Increase Your Penis Size By 5 Inches" advertizements."

Is it ok to quote online sources in a blog? I don't get much porn solicitation. Clearly my sexlife is deviant.

F*(^ email.

the elderly

Elderly! Elderly! I need some help here. There is a stain. Me. I'm stain. Can't seem to fully leave. Have a foot out the door. A meter. A meter ever chance I get. Hehe heh. I am a Codger. I am not yet incontinent, but as soon as I get off this boat, I will be. As soon as island. The only...ONLY... important question to which I need an answer is: Is winnipeg ready for me? Or not, hair I comb! A brush with destiny. Not likely to be owned by a codger. The elderly are stupid. The elderly are not wise. That's an old wise tail. Curved back, stupid old offensive linebacker. Old Gold. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. Light 'em first. Many hands make light work. Dammit this is not stream of conscientiousness I'm talkin here. This is about the elderly, late to his shift. Shifty.
If you care about somebody, you think about them, but you don't do anything to help them. People don't need help. They need a little ice floe on which to be set. Give me my ice floe and I will be set. I will (reluctantly) leave Winnipeg and go out out out, until I hit the place where Lisa P and Steve J and Arthur and all those people who had to live through the last depression went. I guess I choose cremation, 'cause I don't want to be buried alive. Dad burnit.