What is it, really?

When you scratch these things out first thing in the morning as I do, the results are not often immediately clear. Was that a blog, a journal entry, a dear diary, an essay or something culled from a psychiatrist's couch? My original intent 500 and whatever blogs ago was to entertain whoever happened to stumble upon this site. If you were to scroll back to the beginning, you would find that most of the entries were written with a humorous bent and a goal of obtaining a chuckle here and there. Since then I have gone far afield, sometimes to my satisfaction and sometimes not. Excluding the stories, poems, reviews, essays and what-have-yous that I have written and posted on the blog, my humorous entries are still my favorites. That said, I now ask you to scroll back to "Clandestine Clinic", read that and the two subsequent blogs and then return to this dreary dissertation.

See? Don't you feel better now? I know I do.

Thing is, I don't always feel funny. Most of the time I do, for sure. I mean while the poet waxes grandiloquent over a flower, I note that it seems to be laughing its head off. I find humor at the most inappropriate of times and in the most mundane of places. Can't help it, really, I'm blessed/cursed that way. But...not always.

So what I'm trying to say is a kind of apology. I've looked back at my last few blogs and they seem to me drier than my throat five minutes before happy hour. They are just not, to my way of thinking, (a way, apparently, that excludes anything having to do with the brain) entertaining. It may be because I've been hosting lung lizards for a couple of weeks or it may be, as I suspect, Bush's fault, but whatever the cause, I promise...absolutely nothing at all.

Ah zoe. Veddy gud. In our next zession ve vill discuss your childhood. For now, your hour is zup.