Statistically speaking
Readership is at an alltime low! More specifically, the statistical charts and calculations tell me that no visitors have been present, unless you count the ones searching for "Dean Ballister" or "I-doser." I don't. The charts, I find, rarely lie, and I would show you one if I could. I would mark it up and show you exactly what the lines meant. I would do several examples and explain the ins and outs of what it all means. I would list the conclusions clearly and consicely and draw you a map to my house. We would have Cinnabon treats.
What happened?! Disgust with Fiestwizard? Lack of Fiestawizard's posting of nourishing content? Bored with your own life and afraid to admit it into the endless expanses of the internet? All quantitative signs point to the latter answer, but instinct tells me otherwise.
Blast of fress cookie smells. Bathing in a warm oatmeal-saline water. Bringing your cats to the park. All things that you enjoy immensely and that I plan to write about in the coming year. Other topics will also be discussed and new projects will be undertaken.
An untimely end to your lack of compassion has led you to an unfamiliar realm. Processing the wilting shore-built dwelling that exceeds your expectations. You wander up to it, smelling the dank air needlessly. Your sense of smell, on a scientific scale, is poor to fair. You find a pool of water with broken glass. Slipping around it you find your way to the pad-locked door and pry it open. It is not difficult, even for you. You find a man inside, sitting lengthwise on a church pew. With your low-power smelling ability you are able to tell he's gone to unspeakable lengths to remain unclean. You kick over some old looking belongings (of someone) and snack on a soft pretzel you find. You nod your head at the man and extend a hand to him. Is this an appropriate approach?
Right now, not a topic exists that is worth writing about... or maybe there are so many topics that the task overwhelms me. I wake up. I work everyday. Just like any other run-of-mill humanoid. In the sterility and monotony lies many a tale, but some are too disgusting to reveal. We can relate. The time, it keeps on slippin' (slippin') into the future. The priests and ministers ask for payment.
With all of this bearing on the shoulders, and the theremin complete, I'm free for a moment to share with you something. A continuation of some previous post.
Chapter 2 – Hours passed in exile
….He woke up every morning as if it were the same as the thousand before it, or the next thousand after it, if he managed to live to see them. The mattress that lies on the floor was stained with the remnants of old gravy dinners and body fluids. He didn’t care much for thinking about that, especially the body fluids. He could afford better, but lacked any sort of motivation to obtain it. He wanted his life to be worth more than a half hour’s worth of masturbation (on a good day), a bowl of Corn Pops, and 8 hours of following invisible leads to fame, and a new set of clothes and a cleaned up lifestyle would only provide a pretty façade to his puss-filled, festering wounds. Every morning he ran through several scenarios as he pulled his sweatpants off and exchanged them for good chinos. The scenarios likely involved moving away with his last bit of self-confidence and starting a new life. The thought of facing the same people everywhere he went, the same people competing for non-existent resources, depressed him into watching infomercials and dropping sexy fantasies from his mind.
Static, stationary, magnetic fields. He’d heard about them on some melodramatic scientific investigative show. In summary, he remembered that this was related to some idealized process that could save mankind. He wasn’t interested in science... ever. However, he was interested in the philosophy, or so as much as he could be interested in something other than good cold medicine and Sanford and Son on the TV putting him to sleep at night. On a typical day, nothing bothered him other than his own menial existence. But this scientific fact that one might see presented by a second or third-rate drunken local news anchor on the six o’clock news kept his attention. In fact, it bothered him ceaselessly. It bothered him because the idea was shit, or so he heard. The merits of the theory, whether it was man’s savior or the antichrist, didn’t matter. What mattered is the idea that a theory built around the static and stationary may be worthless. For him, it was his life. It made him feel guilty, then confused, then sleepy. This sequence of feelings generally lasted less than one minute, and it ended with him happily jumping back into the life than had caused him to have the thought in the first place.
What happened?! Disgust with Fiestwizard? Lack of Fiestawizard's posting of nourishing content? Bored with your own life and afraid to admit it into the endless expanses of the internet? All quantitative signs point to the latter answer, but instinct tells me otherwise.
Blast of fress cookie smells. Bathing in a warm oatmeal-saline water. Bringing your cats to the park. All things that you enjoy immensely and that I plan to write about in the coming year. Other topics will also be discussed and new projects will be undertaken.
An untimely end to your lack of compassion has led you to an unfamiliar realm. Processing the wilting shore-built dwelling that exceeds your expectations. You wander up to it, smelling the dank air needlessly. Your sense of smell, on a scientific scale, is poor to fair. You find a pool of water with broken glass. Slipping around it you find your way to the pad-locked door and pry it open. It is not difficult, even for you. You find a man inside, sitting lengthwise on a church pew. With your low-power smelling ability you are able to tell he's gone to unspeakable lengths to remain unclean. You kick over some old looking belongings (of someone) and snack on a soft pretzel you find. You nod your head at the man and extend a hand to him. Is this an appropriate approach?
Right now, not a topic exists that is worth writing about... or maybe there are so many topics that the task overwhelms me. I wake up. I work everyday. Just like any other run-of-mill humanoid. In the sterility and monotony lies many a tale, but some are too disgusting to reveal. We can relate. The time, it keeps on slippin' (slippin') into the future. The priests and ministers ask for payment.
With all of this bearing on the shoulders, and the theremin complete, I'm free for a moment to share with you something. A continuation of some previous post.
Chapter 2 – Hours passed in exile
….He woke up every morning as if it were the same as the thousand before it, or the next thousand after it, if he managed to live to see them. The mattress that lies on the floor was stained with the remnants of old gravy dinners and body fluids. He didn’t care much for thinking about that, especially the body fluids. He could afford better, but lacked any sort of motivation to obtain it. He wanted his life to be worth more than a half hour’s worth of masturbation (on a good day), a bowl of Corn Pops, and 8 hours of following invisible leads to fame, and a new set of clothes and a cleaned up lifestyle would only provide a pretty façade to his puss-filled, festering wounds. Every morning he ran through several scenarios as he pulled his sweatpants off and exchanged them for good chinos. The scenarios likely involved moving away with his last bit of self-confidence and starting a new life. The thought of facing the same people everywhere he went, the same people competing for non-existent resources, depressed him into watching infomercials and dropping sexy fantasies from his mind.
Static, stationary, magnetic fields. He’d heard about them on some melodramatic scientific investigative show. In summary, he remembered that this was related to some idealized process that could save mankind. He wasn’t interested in science... ever. However, he was interested in the philosophy, or so as much as he could be interested in something other than good cold medicine and Sanford and Son on the TV putting him to sleep at night. On a typical day, nothing bothered him other than his own menial existence. But this scientific fact that one might see presented by a second or third-rate drunken local news anchor on the six o’clock news kept his attention. In fact, it bothered him ceaselessly. It bothered him because the idea was shit, or so he heard. The merits of the theory, whether it was man’s savior or the antichrist, didn’t matter. What mattered is the idea that a theory built around the static and stationary may be worthless. For him, it was his life. It made him feel guilty, then confused, then sleepy. This sequence of feelings generally lasted less than one minute, and it ended with him happily jumping back into the life than had caused him to have the thought in the first place.
posted by fiestawizard at 10:39 PM
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