Inspiration comes in the form of sand in a wetsuit. When in doubt, defer to the irritation running rampant along wet asscracks. Such a vivid memory pervades the consciousness here, sitting at work, browsing over paracliques, procrastinating with Elliot Minor in my ear, and blogspot under my fingertips.
Unsettling though it may be, the sensory remnants of that unpleasant experience shoot potent action potentials through to my cerebral cortex, managing to break through a wall of uninspired ideas, tearing it down, block by writer's block.
Previously trite ideas become fresh and appealing, previously cumbersome words come to type naturally. Realization sets in that nothing written here needs to make as much sense as it does in the mind from which it originates. This prose can be, and oftentimes will be (trust me), as irritatingly offensive and frustrating to readers as sand in a wetsuit (inspiration at its best).
For all the questionable vocabulary and atonal wit that will populate this page in the coming futures, there are no expectations that hordes and hordes of literary critics will be falling over themselves to fellate these musings. These are not the thoughts of a person intelligent in the ways of life, society or nature. This is the bored musing of an individual from whom you may illicit a strange and weird vibe. I contend the opposite: it is not the thoughts here that are weird and strange. Rather, these musings are perfectly normal, but it is the world around that is weird and creepy and unicorns.
So here, after years of deliberation and postponements, this blog is finally born. Born of sand in a wetsuit.
Insert thought here.
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