Frangible. It's a real word. I had no idea. I just thought it was a spelling of "fragile" used to mimic incoherency.
I found my blog post to be frangible. I dropped it, and is split up into a few dozen pieces. Here are some:
I could see the cop inside. I was standing next to her car while in line to get in. The cop was counting people to be sure the fire marshal's occupancy limit was not exceeded. It looked friggin' crazy in there. A high energy place.
The woman at the door was checking people. Folks would walk up, and say a name. The woman would check her list, and say, "Okay, you're in." Or, not. Like to me, out in the cold next to the cop's car. I've never really been part of the "in-crowd."
"How many in your party?" the door woman asked me.
"Two," I told her. "But we don't need a table."
She whispered something into the mic at her breast. "Nope. Can't let you in until a table frees up." Shoot. Why not just go home and play video games instead. Pick up a frozen pizza...
I thought of slipping the door woman a couple Lincolns. I mean, after all, this was just Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday afternoon, not a NYC Club with Alica Keys trying out new material.
Outside so long made my kid's ears so cold. He nestled into my neck. Fine. We'll wait for a chance to win cheap plastic crap.
The books and magazine articles stress writing in a journal every day. And, a cheap journal, one I didn't have to worry about the cost of the page I was spoiling with drivel.
I picked up a journal a week ago. Still, I can't think of any cheap drivel to put into it. I may as well just sneeze into it. It was cheaper than tissue.
Shoot, I can barely think of a Facebook status every day. What the heck am I going to write in a journal.
The journal's got a pocket, though... That's cool, right? I can't think of a thing to put in the pocket, neither.
My boy said, "What's that song playing on the playground speakers?"
"I have no idea."
"It sounds like something from Sesame Street," he mused, "Sounds like it from this angle."
I lost my glasses again. I feel stupid. You'd think, seeing being so important to me, I'd remember where I put my eyes.
Where's the web site that feeds ideas to bloggers who have nothing to write about, but still have a nagging desire to just keep bull-sh*tting to hear themselves grumble?
I found a book of writer's prompts, but it's all fiction prompts. Nothing like, "What are your five favorite karoke songs and why?" Or, "When was the last time you laughed at someone else's pain?" Or, "Why do you wear the underwear you do?" Or, "Have you ever connected on a different, subtle plane with an animal at the zoo? Like it was talking to you?"
Sh*t. What the hell am I going to blog about?
Happy birthday! You know who you are.
I can't keep Facebook's "Live Feed" and "News Feed" straight in my head. I don't know why this bothers me.
I can feel nostalgia creep into me like Vaporub's pungent sting on the surface, seeping through my pores to suffocate today's reality in a soft, pessimistic gloom that is hard to shake. Then, my family smiles, and I remember I never lived in the 30s.
I don't like potato chips much any more. But, I still eat them.
Why doesn't Sasha Cohen have her own reality show yet? Or, maybe a video game? Damn. Still can't get a hold of her on Twitter. It's like she wants privacy, or something. Why crave privacy, when she could have thousands of pompous, obsequious armchair figure skaters telling her how she should do a triple Salchow in 114 characters or less? Or, tell her how we, too, felt her pain as she under-rotated and fell on her ass, but soared with her on her spirals. Geez. Privacy. So overrated. Um, not like I'll be friending you on Facebook anytime soon...
Yeah, well, like I said. Frangible.