You have to imagine this being spoken in a soft, charming Irish brogue. Apart from I don't have an Irish brogue, or a soft voice, although hopefully the twang of Merseyside would be considered charming by some. Not, however, through a faceful of mucus, which is the condition I've been under these past few days, from Sunday the day of rest, to this afternoon, where thankfully the manflu has lessened and I can now now breathe through my nose. I never realised how much of a blessing that was until I lost it, it's bloody impossible to try and sleep without either asphyxiating or being kept awake by your own breathing.
So due to being in a degraded, delapidated condition, I curled up on the couch, unable to blog. Did you see all those 'c's and 'd's? That's what I call artisanism, or possibly alliteration. Does anyone care or this just bloggishness coming through my mucus exterior, forcing it's way through the sludge to my fingers on the keyboard, through a load of complicated wires which are way above my humble knowing and onto a pixelated screen. Woop dee doo. That reminds me of how I once wondered about the morality of my particular pixels while playing a bloody battle on the wondrous game that is Rome: Total War. Those dotsof light couldn't give a green monkey's flying toss what happens to them or those they were animatronically hacking to the ground. God I love the freedom of writing without an aim, without the limitations bound by a paper article, or a story which is supposed to be going somewhere, or one of those bloody stupid school assignments where you were given so many constraints and a framework which was tried so hard to be left behind, given only the perfunctory nod and briefly alluded to in an effort to write something vaguely interesting not just for the reader to read, but for yourself.
Not as bad as those 'reading' essays they enforce. Odd place to start a paragraph, that. Anyway, I don't see the point in analysing pieces of writing, off reading in order to dissect, not enjoy. It sucks the joy out of the story, turns it from a tale into a terror. Hey, teacher, leave us kids alone! Sometimes I hate the education system, the way it turns what could be vaguely interesting into something belonging to a syllabus or a curriculum, a load of insomniable waffle. Insomniable, what a word, that deserves a place in the McKean hall of fame. And on that bombshell, goodnight. Or good morning, depending on which time zone you happen to be in at this point.