In case you missed that, it’s late. And I’m bored.
Actually, more specifically, it’s early. But that’s neither here nor there.
This is what happens when you sleep too late into the morning, after reading too late into the night for too many consecutive nights. And then you finish your book. A book you’ve read a bunch of times already, but that is still intense enough to keep you awake. This is what happens.
So. I’ve watched TV. I’ve tried to sleep and given up. I’ve caught up with every Internet writer I’m currently allowing myself to read (and there aren’t too many that fall into that category). My old faves have proven too dangerously addictive, Kevin Smith has wrapped the Me and My Shadow thing, and I’ve kicked everything else cold turkey in order to avoid any more passive aggression and unnecessary meanness at the hands of strangers.
And here I am.
Suddenly I understand why the bloggers of the world so often feel the need to post about their dietary habits, dreams, shopping excursions, belly button lint and other minutiae. Maybe it’s not narcissistic navel gazing. Maybe they’re just bored.
Know what I miss? Buffy. I miss Buffy.
Like Billy Pilgrim said, “every room in my house answers back when I call.”
Can’t say I like it.
Stop yer yappin', crazy-pants,