As this blog was just a bunch of pish posh anyway. I have decided to end it.
The slop that I served up here is suited only for a book.
I say goodbye and once again, owe my entire life (literally) and major parts of my literary life to Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne.
This book can be obtained here: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1079 and not a penny is paid and not a penny goes to the original author, who has only such to cover his eyes anyway.
I want to keep up a good relationship with you dearest reader, as I may call upon you again to read some of the same and very seamiest pishposh if it shows up in book form.
May you have a profoundly moving moment.
Her majesty's grand baby was a pretty nice boy, but he didn't have a thing to say.
Her majesty's grand baby was a pretty nice boy, but he spit up every day.
I want to say coochy coo, and here comes the walrus,
but I would be locked away.
by Michael DeVore
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Indeed, as far as the blog goes, I find it well received by its intended audience of not any at all. While I perceive nothing inadequate or profuse, I still ruminate over the need for change. Seemingly, all things must either end or dwell, but nay, I wish a transformation. I do not aspire to move beyond the trifling-- vanquish that thought-- but merely desire to drift with a differing wind.
The complexity of the scheme has me in a stew. I began as a blog. I started not at the beginning, not at the end, nor even in the middle, but on a tangent that had nothing to do with any goal, nor of course, audience in mind. If I have not recounted this previously, I admit the truth of it now. The fact that I know not of what I have written is a telling story indeed. Were I to plot out a proper book, I would hardly misplace the thread of device I had begun with.
There is nothing to be said for it but to trash the whole design. Sir, or madam, I apologize for the time you have spent in simple ignorance of my circumstances up till now. Nay, I grovel at your feet to have you continue the text, be you here only upon an assumption. I have designs upon the architecture of this product of modern communication and I devise to persist.
My beginnings as a purveyor of the written word were as humble as the pencil given me was not. It was a grand hulk of an object, rounded with thick lead and no eraser. Forbidden, as I was, to change my mind, devoid of editing and rewrites, I spent long hours merely copying the words that were penned by another, form over substance. The writing pads were of tremendous size. Reproduction was the game. I have yet the feeling that my instructor was of the habit of not using her own words even upon her own blackboard, but of using, pro forma, the words of another. Could anyone ask a treasure of me now in full knowledge of my outset with the deuce of a pencil while my own voice was stifled? Training for a medieval monk could not have been more effectively fashioned. Damn you Miss Warren for your simplistic drivel of bike, tike, and dike.
Now I may anger a bit quickly when I think of my beginnings though at the time I believed the days not mournful. My whole life had been a series of corrections, yes—and if I forged a unique method, it was most often not the way blueprinted for me. Still, ignorance of the possible was hardly the worst thing humanity had for its endurance tests. Remaining properly unweeded was a much better existence than the alternative. I was, after all, happy and good humored, with a huge pencil in my hands. 
I must endure this moment as I have endured any other and must redouble my effort to please you dear reader. I lay before thee my bare neck. Do with it as you will.