Awks

From bad to worse, oh yeah! That's how it always goes!

This discursive adventure what I shall shortly embark upon is a story different in kind from the caesarian photos lecture story and from the gloves/phone/nose story but wholly similar in degree. In other words, awful, but in another way.

Whereas that birth photos story and nosephone story were just lighthearted awful picaresque adventures, this one that I will eventually get around to beginning to tell is more in the mode of awfulness to which I want to append the adjective "bukowskian." I just googled this word and urban dictionary says it means "when someone comes to writing poetry por prose through reading lots of bukowski books but never read anything else only bukowski" -  yep that's perfect. That's the tone of where it's at today. 2017 all right.

What's common to all these tales is, of course, that I emerge from each with no credit at all. Like Lydia Bennet, Harvey Weinstein, and at least 65 soon-to-be-identified men in the Australian media sector, I will never be easy until I have exposed myself in some public place or other. What better and more public place than here in my blog, which according to Blogger has been looked at 215,059 times since I started it. I would have thought it was more than that, 909 posts* and twelve years after all, this is bullshit, who is responsible! Drag them in here and have them mercilessly humiliated.

Where was I? Oh yeah, my own stupidity, trunkless and vast, and the merry train wreck to which it led, described in excruciating detail for your mild temporary amusement and my perpetual shame. The more entertaining I manage to make it for you, the worse it'll be on the record for future me, so that's good hey.

oh, look at that I've run out of time to tell the actual story. Tommorer.



* this post is therefore "the one after 909"