Monday, September 2, 2024

Why would I even bother to pen this poor excuse for an excuse?

OK (so, pardon me for fartin'): This blog never promised you a rose garden. In fact, I'm pretty much certain that I labeled it a repository for all things, toxic and otherwise, which reside in dark corners of my sometimes conscious brain.

I did not promise you a set of encyclopedias, all the wealth and history, up-to-date, with play-by-play action of all things Andrew. I don't have the time or the inclination to describe in detail each and every turd. 

If you want the curated, best side only version, go to Fakebook. I couldn't keep it up. It was creating stress, from the responsibility to react and interact and constantly issue an opinion, an appropriate response or reaction (or non-reaction).

I admit, this blog is rather like a gall bladder, spewing bile when needed, or a spleen, venting God knows what. Or some other purely excretory system on the body, you fill in the blank.

But my main point was going to be this: Yes, I am aware that this blog is missing, like, the main bits, as far as being any kind of story, journal or memoir. It is a collection of toilet paper squares, upon which random wasted thoughts were smudged. These are mostly gaseous secretions, with very little substance.


Sunday, September 1, 2024

I guess I must have felt something good at the time?

The sun is shining, clouds are high
Birds are singing, and so am I
Never thought that I could feel such peace
People smiling everywhere
Laughing, living on a dare
Dancing in the summer night, so free
Snapdragons and butterflies 
My body gone, the soul, it thrives
Endless possibilities entice me