With Writer’s Block, I Can Churn out Some Real Crap

I just realized that I was about to fail in my goal of writing something here each day after just a couple of days, so before I drift off to sleep, allow me a pointless yammer to fill up the empty space in this text box while I wait for the Tylenol PM to kick in. Why on earth you would want to read it, however, is beyond me, as I’m sure it will be very boring and make no sense whatsoever. Simon, one of our cats, is laying down on the other side of the room. She lays flat on her back with her legs sticking out to each side. Why she does this is something we have never been able to figure out, but it seems to be her favorite sleeping position. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she’s an American Bobtail, so there’s no tail to get in the way when she lays like that. Molly, another of our cats, has just barged into the room and is now knocking a remote control off the top of the nightstand. For some reason, she has a deep-seated hatred for that particular remote and is always batting it about the room. The nightstand is a deep brown. The cat knocking things off it is an orange tabby. The colors don’t particularly match, unless you have somehow invented a time machine and journeyed back in time with the furniture and the cat to the 1970s. We need some time machines around here, because they are the only things that will make the furniture and cats in this room match. That and you could use it to go to a disco where coked-up people with large medallions and chest hair flap about in an entirely un-ironic fashion while a whole lot of rhythm’s goin’ down. It’s the only truly practical use for a time machine I could think of right now, aside from going back in time from this point to about an hour ago and falling asleep then instead of a few minutes from now and giving myself an extra hour of sleep tonight. That would be sweet.

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