Never one to tell a short story, I am like a dependable faucet: either on or off.
I try not to drip.
And if I feel as though I might drip, I force myself to shut up. Er, off. Erm, out?
So as I mix some metaphors and throw in a few non sequiturs for your reading pleasure, indulge me a few moments of waxing ridiculous.
I wonder if writers are allotted a fixed amount of words during their be-ing on Earth?
If so, I definitely have hit my quota.
Damn dissertation and all of those words it took... wrecked my lifetime measure of sustainable prose.
Not sustainable forestry or farming.
Wordsminthery gone south.
Out to lunch, tea, dinner, second breakfast and midnight snack.
I've apparently stuffed the world with so many words that I cannot pack in another one.
Well, thanks to limitless blogger space, perhaps I have found my Liquid Plumber.
My septic snake...
Okay, so not going there.
I'll just follow the leak here on the screen and see where it leads us.
Rather than plumbing the depths of man's inhumanity to man, of which there is a lot these days, I think I'll step outside the fray for a while.
I find the world and all of its news is drowning my language.
I find it is taking away pieces of me that are going down the drain--irretrievable and not just stuck in the ess-bend.
I'll keep plunging in and hope that my silliness and punnery hasn't driven you to eye-rolling and gagging.
If so, dear reader, my deepest apologies.
The loo is overflowing on the rest of the web and tons and tons of shyte is pouring out of it on a daily basis.
I'd rather think of myself as that dripless faucet.
Or maybe a distant "thwip" you hear in a cave.
Water on rock, hewing out something recognizable over long spans of time.
Or creating a quiet underground waterway of meaning.
Betcha didn't see that one coming, huh?
Neither did I.
Neither did I...