Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Dear Chinese stroke Taiwanese Spammer

Thanks so much for your spammy comments. They’re very pretty.

I’m planning to print some to decorate my office soft board, and for once I think U’s going to rue the fact that he doesn’t have his own blog.

Now, I really don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful or anything, but this note is to let you know that I have enough. My collection looks quite complete and I’m pretty certain I have a sample of every symbol in the script. So, really, you can safely exclude me from your next party list. I promise I won’t think the worst of you.

Hope the loving and playing for world peace plans go well.

Thanks for everything, again!

Will keep you posted [haha] on how the decorating goes.

XOXO [that’s British for snogs and hugs]

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Still waiting

I’ve convinced myself all I need is just that one sharp, clever phrase to skid right back in here.

But. I haven’t found it.

So I keep creeping back secretly to check how the mounting count of indecipherable spam comments are maintaining the illusion that there is activity on Shout – that my routine utterances over the last three years continue to touch lives far and wide [porn peddling, viagra endorsing, real-estate mongering faceless sales-avatars count, of course] even though my head has collapsed in a slothful slump that seems unconquerable.

RBoH and LBoH lie fused, forgotten and unchallenged, wallowing beneath this new state of uncomfortable placidity. There is no friction no despair no sudden searing thrill of anxiety and therefore no jumpstart angst-ridden gritting of brain against brain that might birth a clever phrase or two.

It might be too optimistic to say I’m cured of my chronic inability to cope with nightmares, traffic and bad hair days – as a matter of fact I am sporting very bad hair. Newly acquired, thanks to U’s exceptional skill with blunt scissors, my quest for adventure-in-the-absence-of-angst and perhaps an inherited streak or two of borderline masochism.

But. The point is, I still haven’t found that phrase.

There is much I’ve endured in anticipation of its arrival. Not least my own poetry. I've written poems. I've sung to traffic. I've passed wind and it's passed me by without a flutter of inspiration.

Not a feather
Or a fart
Not a letter
Or even
Half a phrase
That’s middling tart.

There. Bear with me. I’m obviously not bearing down hard enough.