Not Exactly a Sermon on the Mount

Blogging. Hate the term enough that if it were a people I would advocate its genocide. I've tried it before. Tried it a number of times and met with varying levels of success and self-satisfaction. The only problem with all my attempts was that I strove for the big money, the big catch, the big fucking profound thought that would some how validate all the time I spent clacking away at my keyboard. Of course, I never found the thing. I'm a college student, I have nothing profound to say. Pretentious things to say? Sure. Ivory Tower elitism? Absolutely. But profound thoughts that throw something into question? That bring something new to the table? That change how we see life? Fuck no. I don't have the time for that, nor is my life even that exciting. I may be intelligent enough to string a couple sentances together and call them "a blog," but screw me sideways if I think for one minute that makes me the next great thinker. I'm just a young adult, bored on certain evenings, with an opinion on nearly everything. Couple that with a free outlet for it? Holy shit, you caught this cheap bastard of a college student hook, line, and sinker.

So, you ask, now that you've laid all that out in a semi-tagental paragraph, what are you actually going to do with your corner of the internet?

Well, first off, I'll continue to force you to pose questions to me, without your consent. I'd apologize, but seeing as no one is going to actually get around to reading this, I'll save it. Secondly, I plan to follow my usual procedure regarding my blogs -- that being immediately forget about them. Don't be disappointed. You won't be missing much, unless you enjoy the snarky, sarcastic, and generally mean-spirited rants of a college student secluded on a hill. Or, perhaps you love it when people who have no right to complain about anything feel entitled to do so. If you're such an individual, let me direct you so you can get your regular fix. That link also works for people who pop a boner at the sights and sounds of demegogery. Or maybe you're just a huge, self-important douche. If so, I empathize with you.

Seriously though, why are you still reading this? Are you expecting me to have something witty to say? Something scathing, or biting that will just make the inner sociologist inside you squirm at my slightest bitching about classism? Because, I will also empathize with that. Or, at least, my inner sociologist will. I normally try to ignore him though. He's too bound by theory, marxism, and an overbearing hatred of anything contianing the words "corporate," "capitalist," "global economic system," and "social class." That coporate part also applies to "Something Corporate," but for totally different reasons. I digress. I have no idea how we got here. I suppose that's a fucking H-Bomb of a question right there though. I'll let your mind fizzle like pop rocks for a bit.

Better?

Good.

This "blog" (fuck, I hate that word) is aimless. It is like my brain. Except if you distilled my brain to only its most rage-filled and vitriol-spewing portions and made it into a smoothie. Incidentally, that smoothie would taste like brain, which should dissuade you from trying it at home. Also, you'd die. Brain smoothies aside I cannot promise anything my lovelies. Actually, no I can. I promise to never refer to you as "my lovelies" again, no matter how much it makes me chuckle. Deep down I cringe. Normally I'm not affected by shame, but fuck was that shameful. So, yeah, you got one promise out of me. That's the only one I'm making. Well...let me make one more. I promise that if you stick around you will be at least mildly entertained. Or appalled. Or become comatose. Either way, something will happen to you. I can't say it'll be good though. Still, life's full of risks. And people you despise deep down with seething resentment. It's also full of awesome things, like music, puppies, baked goods, and blankets. I love blankets.

A story for another day! One where the cold meds aren't making me sound bi-polar, or like I slipped out of bedlam in the night. I realize the internet is the place for many people to let their crazy out (or TV, it seems) but I really don't want to become one of those. I'll leave that to the professionals. The genuine articles. I'll stick to my own particular brand of crazy -- the cold meds enduced kind, aside -- which is mainly just a lot of ranting and ego-stroking humor. All the same, I'll try to maintain some decorum in between f-bombs and references to "Getting screwed sideways."

So yeah, not going to have any of that. Decorum, I mean. Stay classy ladies and gents. I'll keep shouting down from the hill every once and awhile. Just tune me out if I get on your nerves. And if I disrupt the migratory patterns of the buzzards that live around here, well, I apologize to the National Park Service...or the Department of Fucking Scary Carrion Birds. Basically whatever agency deals with that kind of shit. Alright, seriously, I'll get down off the hill before I roll off under the weight of my ramblings.

Best,

Granville Crier