It is done. The order has been completed. The late are crying and banging their heads against the walls and screaming "Why couldn't I have gotten in Matthew's order and saved three dollars in shipping? Why?"
It is undone. Somewhere, I have a disk containing the final pages of seven novels. I printed it out and, because it happened to be on my person, showed it to some SAT&Bs, who were generally suitably amused. (Hi, Misses Neptune and Gray!) Once I find the disk, I promise I will send it to my "Never Underestimate" buds.
It is kinda done. So, I've managed to write in this journal about every other weekday -- not quite the every weekday promise, but much better than the once-every-two-months-maybe schedule I was on late last year. However, I see a problem: my journal entries have recently become less consciously interesting. Rather, they are more Matthew rambling on about how great he is, how hard it is for him to give up television for Lent (a sly form of the public tithing that Beth and Jesus hate), etc. The Catholicism deconstruction worked for a while, but I've lapsed into the "Seinfeld" journal: a journal about nothing. (Also, like "Seinfeld," it's generally not funny.)
I'm not immediately sure how to resolve this; perhaps it'll simply resolve itself once I get on another kick of sorts.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
