I am blogging today because it is cold, drizzly, and perfectly grey-brown outside, and for some reason that makes me want to talk about myself on the interwebs. And while I always glean a great deal of pleasure from discussing me in all my gloriosity, I typically do so aloud and at some defenseless and often unwilling listener. On dreary days, however, all my thoughts seem to me to be of a deeper nature. Even if I'm thinking, "I wonder... if I leapt out my window toward that tree over there, could I jump far enough to grab onto the branches before I fell? What is that? Like six feet? I bet I could do six feet... How far do those guys in the Olympics jump? It has to be WAY farther than six feet. I mean it looks like its way farther. I bet that would hurt my hands though... I've been playing guitar for like two weeks; they're getting better at handling pain. I mean, if it's life or death, instinct would take over, right, and I could grasp anything; knives if I had to. Like in Rob Roy. Yeah, Rob Roy. That was an awesome scene. I freaking love Tim Roth. I'm so glad he got Lie To Me. He's so underrated....deserves the work." it reverberates in my head in a Jack Handy style voice over and fills me with the urge to write it down so I can revisit it time and again in all its low-spoken, well-enunciated, mundane wonder.
And thus, it begins...
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