The boy's weird, Channon. You should trade him in. Or sell him for salvage. Spider Jerusalem

I awoke in a pissy mood today, and that sentiment has only been augmented since I rambled by WritingUp to pull down something like 250-pages worth of my blogs before the site went on a permanent fritz. Well, looks like I missed the boat and those lurid, depressive ramblings will be lost forever, or at least until I am able to recover what I can from the bowels of Google's HTML cache, which is a task I am not overly anxious to undertake, nor am I expecting it to yield much in the way of positive returns. If I can salvage some of the more pertinent inanities I spewed forth in those tumultuous and confused times, the whole thing might be worth the effort. Barely.

I am getting what I deserved, though. Faith in the Electronic Wilderness is usually misplaced and will, more often than not, bring about serious disappointment.

But here I am, hunkered down in this tasteless office with a film of dampness clinging desperately to my skin and the constant hum of Interstate 88 just outside my window. I can smell death as I often can on days like today, and I am usually right. About twenty minutes ago, I felt compelled to take a stroll into the mud around the side of my building despite the rain and my ambivalence at tackling mortality head-on when vibrations are sinister enough. There it was. A dead bird being picked at by a lonely ant.

I muttered words of rest and good will. Few things sadden me like the sight of a bird rendered flightless by injury or death with those large, lidless marbles that have faded into eternal blindness. It would seem to me that even the sky turns to dust.

I could list the reasons that I am in this funk, but what good would it do? My electronic ravings have gotten me in trouble before, and I have no doubt that things will turn out much the same if I am not careful. Besides, my nerves are jangled, and my thoughts are coming out stilted and in fragments. My mind is not in any condition to undergo serious soul searching at the moment, and pumping out yet another topographical analysis of my psyche would prove not only fruitless but ill-conceived in a way that might eventually necessitate a few days spent off the map somewhere, dressed in a loin cloth, sucking down booze, and filling my synapses with psilocybin.

Ah, yes.  Wrestling grizzly bears. Skinning wolverines. Getting in touch with those primal instincts we have been bred and conditioned to deny for civility's sake. Everyone needs to hit the reset button every once in a while to stay healthy.

But what the fuck am I talking about? Really?

It is easy to chalk this thing up to petty chronic whining, and yes, perhaps in memory of those old blogs that have been devoured by the Internet, I am shooting up one last Meandering Bitchfest in the style of old. And so be it. There is little reason to avoid doing so if it helps kill a little time and get these rusted-out gears of mine to start grinding again. The fucking bastards have refused to move for a few days now, and I'm getting sick of the bad reflexes and inability to defend myself against spiritual fascists.

...and that is the signal to end this thing off. No need to spout out irresponsible accusations and be labeled an intolerant goon.

I wouldn't be able to deny it, and I have a hard enough time pretending to be compassionate as it is.