I have the attention span of a woodpecker.
Which is to say I’m easily distracte — ohh! Shiny!
(I’m sorry, I stole that joke from my friend Beano, but she can have it back, she does it better)
So this why it’s possible you are now reading this with a too-cool-but-sort-of-annoying matrix look to it, unless I’ve already grown bored with that, or unless I have gotten really ambitious (and fucked off a lot at work) and gotten the style-switcher function in place so you’re seeing this any damned way you please.
But we were talking about distraction. I must have gotten — oh, Shiny!
This is what happens to me. I sit down to write something and will take any excuse not to. Oh, first I need coffee. Wait, now I need some food. Oh, this music isn’t right, where’s that first album by, oh, man, these CD’s need to be organized, I’ll just — Ooh! Look! I forgot I had this one, I should play it. Wait, I need to hook up the stereo to the good speakers and…. And I need some more coffee now.
Yeah. It’s like that. And that’s the horror of the internet for people like me. The tools of my trade, and the tools of my – um – whatever writing is, hobby sounds wrong – are also the greatest source of distraction in my life. Here, clickity-click, is my email, some music, shopping, porn, an article on the mating habits of the capybara, political diatribe, computer-date-matching, (I’m an elk, looking for a wombat, for casual dating and maybe cross–species monkey business. Mmm, with monkeys!), porn, chit-chat, discographies for bands I don’t even like, dictionaries (don’t get me started, I’m gone for days once I’m in a dictionary), blogs and porn and recipes and – well, porn.
Some days I think I should cut the damned wire and turn my computer back into a fancy typewriter (which is sort of how my mother-in-law thinks of it).
But you know, that might be right when the email comes in, the one I REALLY REALLY NEED to READ RIGHT NOW.
So here’s were I should talk about exactly how far broken safety glass can go in a garage (any garage – ok, my garage) when it’s flexed beyond it’s natural range. But that story might make me look stupid. Let’s just say that the majority of my day, when not working on making the blog nobody reads user-configurable, was spent sweeping up a tiny, tiny hash of shiny (Oooh! Shiny!) fragments of safety glass from my garage floor.
And you know what? Now, it’s sure to rain. That always happens when I take the top off my jeep, even when I don’t break the mother fucking rear window of the hard top. If there wasn’t enough weather mojo just from removing the top, this seals the deal. 40 days and 40 nights, call me Noah, and load up the ark with goth girls, two by two.
You know, my garage floor is swept really clean now. At least there’s that. Only, I’m sure to be the one who finds the shard I missed, and I’m sure to find it with my foot. Because that’s how luck is running. Trip to vegas? Nah, not this season.
So I promised myself I would not blog about orkut ever again. That lasted – oh, what time is it now – at least a few minutes. But I’ve entered a new phase as an orkut user. I’m no longer simply trying to collect my friends and show off how cool I am by which communities I have. I’ve crossed over. I’m now a friend slut. I’m friending people I don’t even know because they 1) up my friend count, and 2) look good in my list of friends.
“Hi, I’m Karl Elvis, and I’m an Orkut Friend Slut“
Somebody stop me. Please.
Ooh, slap the cuffs on me.
I just got put in Orkut Jail.
More on the whys and hows of this later, but it seems some automated evil-doer filter caught me in the nefarious act of posting something (the horror!), and now my account has been suspended and my picture replaced with this image.