A Palate Cleanser: It Could Be Worse, It Could Be Raining

Source: Moonlitkitchen

Thank you all for the comments yesterday.  I know that it can be difficult to read that kind of post, but as several of you pointed out - it's important to put a human face on this process. I wanted to tell the stories of the other people we encountered that day because while our situations were different, there was a common thread. Your compassionate responses speak well of you.  I'm honored that you come here and read.

Today I'm in the mood for a palate cleanser.  Something a bit lighter.  Once again, the internet comes to the rescue. Let us tumble down the rabbit hole.....

One of the most egregious results of how our media now operates is the gross oversimplification of very important information.  When your basic formula consists of three minutes to present a complex issue and get the spin from both sides of the political spectrum, it's a wonder we haven't devolved into a group of people who use a series of points and grunts to convey our simple thoughts.

I'm not going to contradict this trend.  It's quite convenient for me actually.  I find pointing and grunting to have a satisfying caveperson quality that meshes well with my days of isolation, sitting in front of my computer tapping out words until they no longer have meaning.  Whimpering as I hit the job search websites again, like a mini-skirted hooker waving down a Yugo because the Mercedes-Benzites don't come to this neighborhood no more.

Good thing I daubbed some Eau de Desperation behind my ears before I logged on.

But it could be worse.  It could be raining.  Who wants to be a hooker standing in the rain squinting into headlights trying to figure out which one is a Mercedes and which one is the Yugo?  Well, maybe the meth addict whose last tooth just fell out of her head and rolled down the storm drain wouldn't mind the rain, but this plain old hooker has slightly higher expectations.  She's gaining seniority on this stretch of the road.  Show some respect, Dick.

Where did I just take you?  I blame the Wonka Gobstoppers.  Damn fruity candy.  This kind of thing doesn't happen when I stick to chocolate.

Gobstoppers are to chocolate what meth is to crack?  Let's move on before we all find our teeth rotting and our will to live slipping down that storm drain.

Oh, and while I'm pointing and grunting and being nouveau caveLisa, the cats pretend they are saber toothed tigers.  Except for the youngest one.  You know which one I mean.  The climber.  She's a pterodactyl floating gracelessly through the air and breaking things.  Or they decide to be dinosaurs.  The old Tortie Daisy is a lumbering brontosaurus.  The two gray siblings do rock paper scissors to decide who will be TRex and who will be the Triceratops.  The big fluffy tabby always has to be a woolly mammoth although he's not fond of the tusks I've fashioned out of bendy straws taped to a headband.

Inevitably, we fall into debating whether cavepeople lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. There are accusations about secret donations to the Creation Museum in Kentucky.  Because we are a passionate lot, tears are shed before cooler heads prevail and we agree to disagree.  While they go back to napping, I use google to find proof that the truth really lies in Greek myth.  We all sprang from Zeus's head.  I'm pretty sure it might involve kinky sex with a pomegranate in a boat crossing the River Styx resulting in George Washington wearing a long, flowing wig emerging from an oyster shell.  I can't decide what I believe, but I know those cats are wrong.  Dead wrong.

Speaking of google, let's get back to the oversimplification.  Last night, I looked at the search terms that bring people to this blog and found something interesting and definitely in need of oversimplification.  What did I discover?

Well, there are a lot of people who either wonder about their ability to care about humanity or who are fans of  the new Sherlock on PBS and were struck just like I was by the line "I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research."  I loved that line in the first episode of the show.  I loved the idea that the sociopath, albeit self-identified and high-functioning, had enough self-awareness to deliver that line.

That's the kind of character I long to create.  I'm not there, but the characters in my new novel have come to life and I'm liking them. Okay, maybe I'm loving them, but I'm not loving them so much that I can't do horrible things to them. Their lives are about to turn upside down.  Like some sick god or maybe my younger self with Barbie and Ken or a high-functioning sociopath, I'm enjoying the lead up to the disaster that's about to befall my characters and make them wish they'd never been typed into existence.

As for those people who came looking for xhamster glory hols and unwraping private parts, well, they're going to be disappointed.  However, for research purposes, I'm noting that when people are looking for porn, they don't spell so well.

Or should I oversimplify it thus:  People who google for porn don't know how to spell.

Perhaps I won't disappoint those wondering about "was feeling bloated" fart gas, fat, fat the water rat and definitely that screeching in their ears.  For that I apologize.  My family has been begging me to stop causing that for years.

The simple conclusion I reach about the sociopath searches is this:  Watch your backs, people. Trust no one  and watch your backs.

Have you checked your stats lately?  I mean your blog stats, your business stats, your fantasy football team stats, your vital stats.  Have you found patterns - disturbing or otherwise?  Can you name the movies that are quoted here?  Would you like a Gobstopper?