To blog or not to blog... that is the question.

Actually, it's no question at all, considering the fact that I'm blogging right now. *whoa* cosmic... *stares off into space for several hours, oblivious to everything*

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I shan't expatiate upon this point to a great extent, but I will say that hurting an individual has to be one of the most painful things I'll ever have to face in my life. The very concept of it makes me physically ill; to actually do it...

Anyways, no further on this subject. All is done.

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Well come on all of you big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again,
Got himself in a terrible jam,
Way down yonder in Vietnam,
Put down your books and pick up a gun,
We're gonna have a whole lotta fun...

And it's one, two, three
What are we fighting for?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is VietNam,
And it's five, six, seven
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopie! We're all gonna die!

This song disturbs me. The fact that it's all the more relevant today terrifies me greatly.

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I wrote this a while ago. I've decided to post it. Because I'm that kind of loser. Sue me.

It is entitled: Why one should not write at 3AM

*walks out on a darkly lit stage, into a single bright spotlight stage left. He is wearing upperclass casual wear, perhaps a smoking jacket. He looks dishevelled, and somewhat nervous. He picks up a telephone and dials*

Llowyn -- Yes hello... Please connect me to the director of operations... now! *waits 10 seconds* Yes, hello sir. I'm sorry to have bothered you at this hour... They're on to me! The syndicate's on to me! They've found my location, and they're sending agents in after me! I need back up now! Wait, there's someone beh---

*stage lights immediately cut out, complete darkness. After about 15 seconds, the centre spotlight comes on, with Llowyn in said spot. A large knife protrudes from his back, yet he carries on without noticable discomfort as if nothing had happened*

Llowyn -- Hello out there! I'm dead! Yessiry, I'm D-E-A-D! *grins maniacally* I've cashed in my chips and I bought the farm... with my winnings *lights come on to reveal the interior of a casino, gaudily decorated* YESSIRY! That's cuz here, at Casino Paradisio, it's nothing but excitement! I mean, here in heaven, we have the world's greatest casino! And that's why I'm speaking to all of you folks! You have only the finest slots in existence to look forward to once you get up here! So come upstairs, and see the show! You can cash in and buy your own farm! In fact, everyone can buy their own farm! It's all farming up here, and toil, and lots and lots and lots of manure... wait a tic, this isn't anything heavenly... *flames shoot up on both sides of the stage*... Oh crap... I went downstairs... NOOOOOOOO!!!! It was all a lie! *two policemen with horns come in stage right, waving their billy clubs* What's the matter? *pauses* What do you mean that cheque bounced!?!? The check for the farm?? WHAT??? *dragged off screaming, rambling nonsensically*

*narrator comes on. Coincidentally also Llowyn, but wearing a tuxedo*

Narrator -- This literary mugging was disjointed, haphazard, and nonsensical. We hope you infer from this abuse of the written word the intent that this email carries. And that is to amuse. So there. Ha. ... HA. HA. HA.

*crickets chirp*

*narrator checks his watch* Alright, where is that moron?

*Llowyn comes out on stage. He stares at Narrator confusedly, who stares back with much the same expression*

Narrator -- This is impossible! We're played by the same person! Who wrote this crap??!?!?

*enter Llowyn, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a notepad*

Other Llowyn -- I did, you fuckers.

*Narrator and 1st Llowyn then proceed to beat him silly*

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Alright, that should just about do it.

I'm done.









Go home, there's nothing more to see.














REALLY!!!!!!!o