Spam
So I was mindlessly deleting the thousands of comments that ended up in my spam file. Mindlessly, because they are too stupid to read. Click. Delete. Are you sure you want to permanently delete? Yes. Click. Gone. Over and over and over again.
So I was mindlessly deleting the thousands of comments that ended up in my spam file. Mindlessly, because they are too stupid to read. Click. Delete. Are you sure you want to permanently delete? Yes. Click. Gone. Over and over and over again.
I danced to Don't Stop til You Get Enough at my friend's wedding.
I sat glued to MTV, waiting for two hours--they had a little countdown clock on screen--for the world premiere of the Thriller video.
If you love animals, this may disturb you. Do not read on. Here is my quandry.
Fifteen years ago I went to a shrink--I apologize--a therapist. Yes, he called himself that. It was a grand time. He had a nice Lazy-Boy recliner and the office had a beautiful view of Minneapolis and I would kick back, listen to mellow music, give him $90, and walk out.
Today, I wrote with absolute perfection . . .for one paragraph. The rest is good, wonderful, and maybe to a reader, the insane perfection will be imperceptible, but in my new novel, RUSH, about an adrenaline junkie who fights wildfire in CA, there is one absolutely perfect paragraph. The words, the rhythm--if you reach it and you aren't lost in the story (which would be tragic), you will marvel. I guarantee it.
I am sitting here thinking of things that I have never done. Things I would like to do. But I fear that the older I get the odds of doing these things diminishes exponentially.
I heard that Americans have a functional vocabulary of 20,000 words. I've heard other figures, but let's go with this one. Moreover, we only use a few thousand of those per day. That leaves 17,000 or so floating in the head, but rarely used, except on special occasions.
I believe marriage should be between a man and a woman.
What a great day. It means we win. Game over. Sure the other team will score some points and it'll look bleak, but the final score is set. We're on the right bench. Get ready to cheer.
Okay, so I get the problem. Merchant ships in international waters can't carry guns of any kind. Maritime Law. Fine. Dumb, but fine. Part two of the problem: bad guys don't seem to care much about the law. Which explains why six men in a rubber raft can float on out from Somalia and capture a huge US ship. It explains it, but something isn't right.
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