Okay, I don't really look like this. I don't look like Death either. For the non-geeks, or, in my world, the tragically ill-informed, I'm referring to my profile picture, which is "Death" from Neil Gaiman's most excellent graphic novels. I'm not nearly that hot. But, in my defense, she's a drawing, and I'm a real person. Clearly, she has an advantage. Sometimes, I do look like death, but, luckily, due to good genes and a penchant for at least semi-regular exercise, those times, at least for now, are few and far between.
I've never liked the stream of consciousness narrative, which just goes to show you how much the irony bitch likes to fuck with me. It's how I write, and I like to write, so I'm forced to eat my words, quite literally. I've traditionally been anti-Joyce, but I fear that he is destined to rank among my heroes. It is my lot, and I accept it, but I'll be damned if I'll like it.
And, I have a problem (This is related, so bear with me.) I seem to possess no mental editor, so whatever goes through my head inevitably and invariably comes out of my mouth. This makes relationships hard, to say the least. The people in my life are always doubting my sanity. I, of course, don't entirely trust my sanity. Why should anyone do such? After all, the crazy person is always the last one to know. However, I am fairly sure that I'm harmless, and that must count for something. And, I'm reasonably certain that I'm actually sane. I'm just ridiculously truthful, for some reason or another. I found myself saying the other day, "Okay, it's honesty time," and I nearly laughed out loud. Isn't it always "honesty time" at the house of Amy? It was a ridiculously redundant statement on my behalf, but it seemed to be appropriate at the time. That's the thing with me . . . It seemed to make sense at the time! And, well, later . . . Yeah. That editor thing would come in handy. Until that time when such is miraculously installed, I remain yours, ever faithful, ever truthful, and brazenly uncouth,
Amy
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