[spoilers]

Welly welly well well, old friends. The time has come around again, hasn't it? Put on your best festive cape because it is once again time for me to update my blog. I envy you, really, because you get to sit and read all the wonderful little things I have to say and grow all the more content inside for having poured over them.

It's like an early Christmas.

Lately, I have been tremendously ill. While ill, however, my thoughts were always of you, the reader, and many of those thoughts were actually quite pleasant. They involved, where I can speak of them, writing more things for you to read and devising new concepts to write about: weed and Halo and linear mass accelerators and even a bit about a leprechaun named LaDarius who liked to compose epic hour long lyrical ballads about the ultimate futility of war. I bandied about continuing my space horror epic or about trying to commit to Internet all of the marvelous untold tales of Hallowed Berkeley, but ultimately these ideas were considered by the Committee for What Pantsy is Writing About Today to be inappropriate for the current world and were unceremoniously dropped until the next plenary meeting of the Politburo.

However, I could not leave you wonderful, horrible people with nothing to read about after my convalescence, so I endeavored to produce for you all some article of appreciable length which you might consume and think about and use as further evidence for the validity of misanthropy, or, at the very least, mispantsthropy.

And then it hit me.

Like a pallet of bricks or a burlap sack full of retarded puppies dropped from a bridge on high, it hit me. Why not write a blog entry about nothing? I could merely procrastinate in pose and drag it out for as long as I possibly could and I could wrap it in well constructed, dry, sarcastic prose as to make the reading an altogether bearable experience whilst at the same time passing it off as some sort of literary statement - a condemnation of the lack of substance in modern "literature," for example.

Brilliant! Visionary! Accomplished!

These are just a few of the accolades which my ego assured me I would win from my peers by the composition of such a work. The very thought of such a thing made me grin in anticipation of the Pulitzer I would most deservedly win for this work. All I had to do was compose it, and before I knew it my night of mild drinking was wearing off and that's exactly what I was doing.

Oh, but how would I handle the shift in tense? Things had gone from observing the past to thinking about it as I wrote it. It was a troubling time, to be sure, and I had no idea how I could handle this. Perhaps I could just ignore it? I could attempt to do this subtly, but those who know me know that this is not my modus operandi, and so I fear I can't use it here without raising eyebrows.

Regardless, that's a problem of the past, I think, for most people reading this have by now probably noticed that I am now in the presence tense. And as I type this, all sense of cohesion and substance that might have existed before have bled from the paper. This 'experimental writing' thing is utter bollocks. I think I may have been trying to play this Gonzo, but I'm not sure. Sarcastic Gonzo? Someone find out if that's a thing. As for me? I'm doing stuff now. Go away.