I have nothing to write about today. Absolutely diddly-squat. To be honest, I don’t know why you’re still reading. I’d just leave if I were you. Move along. There’s nothing to see here.
If you’re a new reader who has happened to accidentally stumble here via the “Next Blog” button, I’d hit that same button again. You’ll probably have to cross a crevice of few foreign language pages that you don’t understand, or pages with garish patterns which burn out your retina before you’ve a chance to start on the text, but it’s got to be better than this. You never know, maybe you’ll come across something nice about knitting or some photos of someone’s niece standing next to a vintage car. This is a dark lonely corner of the blogosphere anyways. Look at it – all black, uniform and boring. Virtually no visual stimulation whatsoever. And as for the text? Well clearly, there’s no content, is there?
I know what you’re thinking. “The whole thing seems a bit of a waste of time. Whoever is writing this must be pretty self-indulgent to soldier on, putting all these pointless words together on a page just for the sake of it. And look at all the self-referencing he’s doing too, talking in this third person dialogue and all that; pretending to be someone else. Maybe he’s a bit mental or something. Or maybe he thinks he’s being dead clever by being all experimental ‘on your ass’, but anyone can see how this desperate experiment is flailing. If it were all a build up to some giant climactic ending, then it would be worth plodding on with. But I don’t even think he’s got a clue how he should end the entry. It’s all just waffle now. How long can he keep typing all this before he’s able to find an inkling of direction? We’re 316 words in and if something interesting was gonna happen, surely it would’ve started by now? And what’s all this dialogue anyway? It seems he’s bought this extra character into life for the purposes of critiquing his blog, but this character is somehow suppose to be representing the thoughts of you, the reader. It’s as if he’s arrogantly trying to proclaim that if you don’t like this entry, it’s somehow your own fault for having all these thoughts in the first place. But he’s the one controlling what words go on the page, casually misrepresenting us as he pleases. And the ultimate insult is that when he stops writing, I (who is supposed to you) will cease to exist. He has given birth to your (my) voice, just to make it say boring things on his behalf, then he’ll just discard it afterward. What a perverse set up. Technically, it’s murder. What sort of a terrible man would commit textual homicide, just for something to write about? Clearly he must reckon murder is the only thing climactic enough to divert the reader from the real, inescapable truth. He really does have absolutely nothing else to say.”
Like I say, you might be thinking all this.
But to be fair, I did warn you in the first sentence.
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