The Internet Is Just Mean

Once again, I've found myself pondering "why, exactly, do I wish to pursue a future in Writing, when I never allow myself to do so?" and come to the same conclusion as I have done for last insert-inexplicable-amount-of-times-here.

"I'll do it later..."

Well "later" isn't good enough, me! You'll do it now!

This came to me during a brief morning period in the shower (technically it was before I showered, but I decided not to say that because a) I couldn't be bothered typing it [except I just did in these brackets, well not these brackets but the brackets surrounding these brackets {more brackets!}], and b) I wanted to sound like a normal person, like I do normal people things, such as cleaning myself whilst doing the nudey-boogey-woogey singing out of time, tune and language to one of Shakira's numbers en español. You know, like normal people).

Unfortunately, I feel I have not much to push these letters for considering the amount of dead space in my brain that's been left by the mass amounts of nothing that's been filling it up. I've not started reading anything new, Deal Or No Deal's still shit but compulsory and the amount of takeaway menus pinned to my noticeboard has risen from one to three, whereas the amount of actual takeaways I've order remains static at zero.

Even worse, I managed to suffer a case of Writer's Block yesterday (although not so much a "block", more of a Writer's Head-On Collision with a Crash Test Wall Where the Dummies Fly Through The Windscreen at Infathomable Speeds Helpfully Slowed Down So Normal People Can See the Hilarity at the Hypothetical Gruesome Deaths of Mannequins [too wordy? {more brackets!!}]). Whilst being told to draft out a short story from a single picture - a fairly simple task, n'est-ce pas? - I found myself spending the first eleven minutes of twenty gazing into the abstract swirlyness of nothing, another three minutes trying to think of a story based on it, and the other six writing what was, in fact, much closer to a shite poem than shite piece of prose. The only thing that could've made it all the more fun is if I'd been told to continue it, work on it, redraft and present it in a mere seven days. Naturally this is what happened and now I have six remaining to do it. But of course, I'm not doing it. Instead, I'm on here moaning about how I'm not doing it (whilst also moaning about how I'm not writing anything [the fact that I've been writing all of this is completely irrelevent in my head {BRACKETS!!}]).

My days of late have been filled by none other than that Satanic bitch called the Internet. I find it thoroughly amazing how something so non-existent can be so distracting. It's essentially the virtual equivalent of a cat batting around a ball of string that's actually made of nothing, even though what constitues as "nothing" does not technically exist considering everything is made of something. But that means if "nothing" can not exist, then "nothing" is nothing and, therefore impossible. Thus "nothing" must be made of something, otherwise it cannot exist. However, "nothing" is just a concept; it does not exist except for in the minds of theologians and philosophers through means of vowel- and consonant-sounds originating from the letters H-I-O-N-T-G-N, which, incidentally, is the sequence I used to get "nothing" on Countdown the other day for seven points.

But yeah, fuck all that. The Internet is just mean. It makes me refresh Facebook every twenty seconds just to see if anyone I remotely care about has decided to say anything of any relevance to my existence or for my own amusement. Of course, this is never the case, so all these seconds of my life are collected up and wasted, thus feeding the monster that is, in fact, this. My further exploitations into the "World Wide Wha...?!" include me having happened upon amusing articles that actually broaden my mind as a reader/writer combo, stumbling across heavily-pixellated (or low quality [brackets?] {MUTHA-FUCKIN' BRACKETS!!!}]) YouTube adaptations of the first half of the songs intended for this year's Eurovision Song Contest (possibly to be followed up by witty/polemical piss-taking writing for the amusement of, amongst others, myself [that is, if I ever get round to feeling like getting round to it {do I even need to mention this any more?}]), and remembering a place someone told me about on this 'ere Intermaweb, which I would normally write about and rip into for it's notoriety, shockingness and downright wrongness for its existence. However, Rules 1 and 2 prevent me from speaking of this.

Basically, what I've been trying to say in all those paragraphs is that I can't be bothered writing, unless I force myself to and just let my brain free onto the page. But this isn't really a page. This a segment of virtual non-entity, which does not technically exist, yet cannot be considered "nothing" as it is in fact something: an amalgamation of letter symbols presented in a way for your actual existent eyes to look at, and your actual existent brain to understand.

Actually, you're better off forgetting everything you've just read for it doesn't actually make sense, is incohesive and I don't feel like being taken away by people in white coats who've had an anonymous phone-call about fears for the state of my mental health. I can assure you I am perfectly sane with a firm grip on reality... until I get on the Internet, that is.