Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on Postmodernist Night! We've got absolutely no topic to blog about, but here we are writing anyway. This is the very definition of postmodernism. Has blogging become exhausted as a medium? Who cares? Even the modernists didn't care. The postmodernists are way too cool to care.
I'm a stupid, boring prat, sitting at a computer, looking out at the black darkness of near-solstice, not even thinking of something like sex, let alone something original, insightful, and world-changing. There are cookie crumbs on my shirt. Speak, crumbs. Never mind. They're just crumbs.
Life has no point, and then we die, so why write? But, why not write, if just to fill the unspeakable void between birth and death? Death. Gonna die. That's it, goodbye. What will they do with the titanium peg in my leg?
Oh, Anne. Bad postmodernist! You rhymed! Don't you know that rhyme went out with the nineteenth century? It's so out of vogue. You're supposed to go on and on, line after line, and make no sense whatsoever. Because if you make sense, that's not postmodernist. Postmodernism makes you work to find the meaning, and then gleefully lets you know that you're absolutely wrong, there is no meaning!
This is the kind of stuff I was taught in college. Is it any wonder that the best I can do for employment at midlife is to be a substitute teacher?