And My Back Hurts and I Can't Stand This Office

Bear with me while I clear some cobwebs and beer from an anterior lobe. It's early morning and instead of rolling over on the cat, I'm here.

You, my loving audience. Both of you, though one I think is still asleep and the other is compiling Magazine Man's entries for months ending with a "y."

I hate to write even though I'm a writer. Another writer once said, wrote actually, that he'd rather back his car over the cat than write. I'm there with him. Not only do you have to dredge original material out of the large cavity you keep your mind and a spare housekey in (this is why I don't get through airport security in under two hours), you have to, in my case, try and make it interesting and above all funny.

Funny? The only funny thing at this hour is my neighbor walking a dog so small it compares to strolling with a self-propelled Swiffer. He doesn't get how silly he looks and, as he's much bigger than I and I have this thing about my teeth staying put, I ain't gonna tell him.

Writers make outstanding conversationalists. As in: "Um, yeah, mmmph. Whatever, lemme just figure out if I need a comma here." Add to that the need for all ten fingers to be stuck to the keyboard and you have a recipe for a LOT of itches that don't get scratched. But we keep at it because every once in a while words and ideas run through our heads that are so forceful and potent and interesting that we have to dump them somewhere on something or they get stuck in some dark cranial fold and the next thing you know you're talking to yourself in the fresh produce aisle of Wegman's. And you don't want to start blending in with vegetables, take my word on that.

So we write, and you read, or don't as the case may be. And we write some more and you visit the pages and come away with a fulfilment that can only come from the secure knowledge that you were smart enough to stick with engineering in college.

Blog writing. It's not just a job, its a way out of a Saturday morning hangover.

Bunny on.