I'm sitting here trying to think of something to write about tonight. It's after 1:30. It's my fault I'm in this situation. I went to an election watch party for a couple of hours earlier. It was a roller coaster. I don't want to talk about politics. Then I came home and talked to Elvira for a while, sorted some laundry and threw a load in the washer, puttered around in the kitchen, and played solitaire on my Kindle for 45 minutes I will never get back. I blame my mom for the solitaire. She loved playing solitaire on her Kindle, and so I started playing on her Kindle while I sat with her in hospice. Now I'm addicted and I'm not happy about it. Thanks a lot, Mom.
When I finally dragged myself away from
I opened the first one.
Fried bologna sandwich. That's all it says. Fried bologna sandwich.
I'm sure I had something brilliant to say about fried bologna sandwiches, because I even took a photo of fried bologna. It's not a good photo, but it is fried bologna. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I figure I could stop here.
But no. I was prepared and I was going to use my great material that was waiting in my drafts. I opened the next one.
Write your own damn porno.
That's it. I'm not sure if I was talking to myself or if I planned to ask you, my loyal readers, to write your own damn porno. I have no idea. I did not take a photo to remind myself this time.
Moving on ...
Look for mangina.
Once again, no idea. I had to goggle the definition, I suspect I had planned a rant,because it's a misogynist concept, but if I did, it's flown out of my mind like the air escaping from a balloon.
The next one was a pretty complete thought. Have you ever noticed how any time a man is getting schooled about any feminist issue that he refused to understand, and continues to mansplain the hell out of, there will be that one woman who comes in and pats him on the head and tells him she understands what he's trying to say and we should all play nice? What the fuck is up with that? Let him take his spanking like the bad boy he is and maybe he'll learn something. Apparently his mommy protected him too, and now he's an obnoxious, obtuse skin bag of X/Y's who steps on his weenie every time someone posts something that makes him uncomfortable.
In fact, I do have notes for a post about this very topic. Maybe tomorrow will be the time for a big, old reticulated rant.
Next useless idea: The weight of being nice.
Hmmm. Anybody know what that might mean? Anybody? Bueller?
I have about a dozen more brilliant ideas and none of them are worth writing about. Pods? Dunno. Scrotum beauty contest? Don't want to look. Things my dick does (NSFW). OK, that one's hilarious, but I have nothing to add to it. A guy takes creative photos of his penis in various costumes and poses. I wish I'd thought of it myself, except one, I don't have a penis. And two, it's remarkably hard to dress up a vagina, which I do have.
Moving on. Introducing my boyfriend, Simon. That would be my imaginary boyfriend. We broke up and I don't want to talk about it.
Did you ever feel stupid? I mean really stupid? So stupid you knew you were going to be the joke at somebody's dinner table? Sounds like there's a story there. No idea what it is.
The year of square dancing and my first three-way. That one I do remember. I was ten. I'm not sure anybody wants to read about that.
I suspect I've made my point. Any preparation I may have made for this month is worthless. Yes, there were a few more possibilities there, but they were even worse than the ones I shared. Humiliating. I guess I'll have to depend on my muse Dolores to get me through. Not that she's been a very good muse lately. She comes to work late and takes too many bathroom breaks and she's probably the one who wrote those stupid meaningless notes in the first place. I should fire her. Fried bologna sandwich? Really?
That's all I've got tonight. Think of it this way: I could have written about today's elections, and nobody wants to hear any more about that shit show tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.
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