Blogger Versus Fascism

I spent the last twenty minutes doing mundane things that have nothing to do with my job. I cleaned out the email box for my eBay empire and Wordpress blog. I noticed that I had received over 100 comments concerning such related topics as foldable bicycles and hot Asian anal. The spam is atrocious. But here, here in this little corner of cyberspace, where no one watches, where no bots come through to plaster promises of a five foot tall Asian scream queen guaranteed to love whatever I want to do to her, I feel content.

It's not that I don't like getting the occasional comment (KIM). But I also enjoy just being able to write about stupid things and stupid ideas and not have to worry about someone I know going off and telling someone else I know what I wrote. That shit will either get me into trouble at work or with the wife, then I have to delete a blog and move on, silently and scornfully, until I can't take the ricochet of my own thoughts bouncing in my skull, faster and faster, until I want to shout to the heaven's and curse God for my own monstrous and twisted ideas.

Wedding plans progress. The bride is really gung ho about the whole process and we have been working on wedding invitations all week. I have been addressing them all by hand. It took me two and a half hours on Saturday to finish my side's invites. I finished her side's last night around 8 o'clock. I understand the sheer solemnity of the sacrament of marriage, but I don't understand why every stamp on every fucking invitation must be just so. But still, she puts up with a lot of my sheer slovenliness, so I have to cut her some slack.

The book progresses. I have a grand total of 8 and a half hand written pages. The idea is still in my mind, but writing is very, very time consuming. It is difficult to find the perfect, or near perfect, words and then string them all together until is sounds like a bunch of Gregorians singing about fiction. Meh, blogging is easier and I hardly ever do that.

And now, some useless fluff to up my visitor stats:

Luke Wilson tried to kill himself because the Scientologists told him to. Nuff said.

Seriously, though. Things are very odd here. The fiancee cannot find a job she likes, I am stuck in perpetua in a dead end job, unless I want to move further away from the fiancee's family, which will never happen. Our house is tiny but livable. She joined the Church choir to deal with her stress, I polished off a bottle of Reisling and a six pack. It's going to be a hell of a wedding...