Why?

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer and it’s what I do.  Yes, I sit alone in a dark room with an electronic bastard son of a typewriter and bang on the keys.  Sometimes I even make sense, but I wouldn’t count on it.  But then, I’m not the sort to count on anything.  I’ve learned better.  After all,  a million monkeys could do just as well.

Of course, all this is my own opinion.  It acts as a kind of therapy for me, and it works.  It keeps me from going outside and bothering people.  If they come to the Village, well, they deserve to be bothered.

For best results, these thoughts, these brain wave regurgitations should be read rapidly in a whiskey baritone reminiscent of Sam Spade.  (What’do’ya mean, “Who’s Sam Spade?”  Okay, kid, do your best Clint Eastwood, then.)  At least that’s how it sounds in my head when I write it, here in the pre-dawn hours with the street light outside my office window throwing shadows across my desk like slices of evil floating on slabs of moonlight.  But I’m just the author — what the fuck do I know?

If you think you can do better, then go write your own damn blog.  You probably need the outlet.  Meanwhile, be satisfied that there’s someone in the Village who’s crazier than you.

Be seeing you.