I see you pondering there.
You read that right. This is part 4. Which has come right after part 1. I’m doing this to show to you that time is a construct (I only have the vaguest notion of what this means because my tutor at University who used it constantly was incredibly attractive) and this blog is avant garde like that.
So, no I am not hiding posts from you. Okay, another lie, I am. But with a relative definition for the term “you”. This entire series has been hidden from one specific person, and instead for reading about ninja lemmings they are being treated to the etymological history of the word “booby” and “tit” as it evolved from bird names to synonyms for a much loved part of the female anatomy. And why it is that when Sir David Attenborough says such words it makes me chuckle.
But you don’t want to hear about that…
So for the story,
…. Shashimi my ninja lemming trainer, throws himself in the path of runaway meatball covered in flaming tobasco sauce in order to save me. I cried. I cried like a baby. An angry, angry baby. I then used the skills imparted by my late great trainer, and using the Spaghetti-Noodles-of-Mayhem-&-Chaos and the colour mauve as my weapons, I assaulted the meatball catapult and killed the samurai mole-rats mole-ratting it (since they weren’t “manning” it obviously) to the last one.
Stay tuned, for the next installment! Whichever part of the story I feel like telling you after this bit anyway!
Now for those who are dismissive of this story as the schizophrenic ramblings of a poor deranged soul, I offer you this self-indulgent and self-involved realisation.
One of the things I learnt from a year of blogging is that my moods are mercurial to say the least. Looking back on posts written in almost euphoric highs and then comparing those posts to the ones written which are downright Hamlet-ly melancholic. A doctor I was dating once supposed that I could possibly be hypomanic/cyclothymic (essentially a much more tame version of bi-polar disorder), but I got too weird and she left before she could finish her diagnosis.
She was probably onto something, but the highs are just so much fun that I kinda think I don’t want to be fixed. But of course the lows taste like the fetid remains of a 7 day old skunk, after being left out in the summer sun. So maybe I should look into it…