I Must Confess I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. Just so we're clear, I repeat: NOTHING.
Well, nothing interesting, anyway.
But that's never stopped me before. So, in keeping with the Seinfeldian theme of this blog, I bring to you a rather riveting post about nothing. You're welcome.
I'm sure you're all bursting to know what is going on in the dim, dark recesses of my mind. It is well known that I am extremely deep, enigmatic and introspective. Always brooding, ruminating and contemplating the very important issues in life such as:
Why did Karen Carpenter have to pass at 32?
Why can't I have my cake? And eat it too?
What can I have for dinner? Especially when that pesky old Dinner Fairy refuses to show her luminous face. Hmph.
Why is Gilbert Blythe a fictional character? And why couldn't he love ME not Anne?! I have red hair!
In addition to such pressing issues, I am also constantly wondering why exactly is it SUCH a herculean task to keep a house consisting of approximately 7 rooms anything even remotely resembling clean or tidy? Therein may lay the answer....
If I am really being my usual happy, sunny, perky, cheerful, positive self - and we all know that's always the way I roll - there may be a few other things I would pause to pointlessly ponder over, such as:
Why am I so shy?
Why am I so introverted?
Why do I have Ass Burgers?
Why do I have dizziness/middle ear or some fictional thing I made up according to some specialists?
Why do I keep asking pointless questions?
I have been dutifully trotting off to see my counsellor. She gave me some information regarding an Adult Asperger's Support Group which was not terribly far from Boganville. Therefore, I did not have an excuse to procrastinate about going to one anymore. But I did anyway. I put off making the call until after the school holidays. Finally, I pressed in the number. A robotic voice informed me: No one is available to take your call! Please leave a message after the tone. So I left one, tripping over my words and feeling foolish as I did so. That was nearly a week ago. Nobody has called back.
Meanwhile, I had an appointment scheduled with my counsellor which was confirmed with a phone call from the centre. Half an hour later somebody else called back and said my counsellor isn't doing counselling anymore and would I like to make an appointment with somebody else? This is annoying when you're a shy, introverted Aspie. Having to start over with a new counsellor. Sighing, I agreed but she said she would have to ring back with an appointment time. That was days ago. Nobody has rang me back.
I suppose that means I have to go to the tremendous effort of ringing them again. If I get the machine again, I should leave a huffy. indignant message. Except I won't. Because I'm too nice. GAH.
Why can't I be a BITCH? I went for a whole two paragraphs without a pointless question so I had to slide another one in. Shut up.
In other extremely fascinating news, I need to buy a new vacuum cleaner. I am going to get one on Thursday or Friday. This will probably be the most exciting thing I do all week. I was perusing the Bogan Box last night and thinking that it resembled a brothel until I realised that I have no idea what brothels actually look like. They're most likely MUCH cleaner than my house. I mean, just think about it. If you were going to have kinky, illicit sex you'd want to be doing that shit on freshly laundered sheets, right?
In the midst of all this excitement I managed to win Slapdash Mama Sarah's Blogaversary Competition! I've never won anything so this was quite thrilling indeed. She wrote a lovely poem about me or actually about Boganville I think, which was quite charming and you can read it here. Thanks Sarah!
Of course this leads me to another confession. In writing this poem, Slapdash somehow managed to 'out' me and reveal my darkest secret.
You may be shocked to discover that I am not really a bogan despite my Boganville address. GASP.
Oh okay, I outed myself in the comments (and every other week here in my own space, when I bang on about The Carpenters). Minor detail. Anyway, since I've really got nothing else to write about except the same old boring as batshit bogan shtick, I think we can all just overlook that and go with it, right? Besides, whether I'm really a bogan or not is debatable. I live in bogan territory and that alone is enough for some folk. So ner. Added to the fact that I write gibberish with dubious attention to grammar and phrases like so ner. So ner. NER NER NER NER!!
THIS turned up in my Facebook feed the other day.
To the person who posted it, it worked. I am, quite frankly annoyed that nobody is with me on this cancel Christmas thing. It will be your own fault when you feel like poking your own eyeballs out from hearing Mariah Carey wailing about what she wants for Christmas for the billionth time. You've been warned.
Another thing that has been bothering me of late is the fact that I suddenly remembered that a few months ago a lovely blogger presented me with one of those Leibster Awards or some such thing. Anyway, because I perpetually have my head lodged firmly up my posterior and I'm SUCH a space cadet I have forgotten who that lovely person was and not responded. So, whoever you were THANKYOU. It's not you, it's me, okay?
And that brings me limping to the end of this pointless post about nothing. Stay tuned for the next post when I'll actually blog about SOMETHING. Or nothing again. You never know. Ahem.
Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.
' Should I really ask another pointless question? Oh look, I did!
Well, nothing interesting, anyway.
But that's never stopped me before. So, in keeping with the Seinfeldian theme of this blog, I bring to you a rather riveting post about nothing. You're welcome.
I'm sure you're all bursting to know what is going on in the dim, dark recesses of my mind. It is well known that I am extremely deep, enigmatic and introspective. Always brooding, ruminating and contemplating the very important issues in life such as:
Why did Karen Carpenter have to pass at 32?
Why can't I have my cake? And eat it too?
What can I have for dinner? Especially when that pesky old Dinner Fairy refuses to show her luminous face. Hmph.
Why is Gilbert Blythe a fictional character? And why couldn't he love ME not Anne?! I have red hair!
In addition to such pressing issues, I am also constantly wondering why exactly is it SUCH a herculean task to keep a house consisting of approximately 7 rooms anything even remotely resembling clean or tidy? Therein may lay the answer....
If I am really being my usual happy, sunny, perky, cheerful, positive self - and we all know that's always the way I roll - there may be a few other things I would pause to pointlessly ponder over, such as:
Why am I so shy?
Why am I so introverted?
Why do I have Ass Burgers?
Why do I have dizziness/middle ear or some fictional thing I made up according to some specialists?
Why do I keep asking pointless questions?
I have been dutifully trotting off to see my counsellor. She gave me some information regarding an Adult Asperger's Support Group which was not terribly far from Boganville. Therefore, I did not have an excuse to procrastinate about going to one anymore. But I did anyway. I put off making the call until after the school holidays. Finally, I pressed in the number. A robotic voice informed me: No one is available to take your call! Please leave a message after the tone. So I left one, tripping over my words and feeling foolish as I did so. That was nearly a week ago. Nobody has called back.
Meanwhile, I had an appointment scheduled with my counsellor which was confirmed with a phone call from the centre. Half an hour later somebody else called back and said my counsellor isn't doing counselling anymore and would I like to make an appointment with somebody else? This is annoying when you're a shy, introverted Aspie. Having to start over with a new counsellor. Sighing, I agreed but she said she would have to ring back with an appointment time. That was days ago. Nobody has rang me back.
I suppose that means I have to go to the tremendous effort of ringing them again. If I get the machine again, I should leave a huffy. indignant message. Except I won't. Because I'm too nice. GAH.
Why can't I be a BITCH? I went for a whole two paragraphs without a pointless question so I had to slide another one in. Shut up.
In other extremely fascinating news, I need to buy a new vacuum cleaner. I am going to get one on Thursday or Friday. This will probably be the most exciting thing I do all week. I was perusing the Bogan Box last night and thinking that it resembled a brothel until I realised that I have no idea what brothels actually look like. They're most likely MUCH cleaner than my house. I mean, just think about it. If you were going to have kinky, illicit sex you'd want to be doing that shit on freshly laundered sheets, right?
In the midst of all this excitement I managed to win Slapdash Mama Sarah's Blogaversary Competition! I've never won anything so this was quite thrilling indeed. She wrote a lovely poem about me or actually about Boganville I think, which was quite charming and you can read it here. Thanks Sarah!
Of course this leads me to another confession. In writing this poem, Slapdash somehow managed to 'out' me and reveal my darkest secret.
You may be shocked to discover that I am not really a bogan despite my Boganville address. GASP.
Oh okay, I outed myself in the comments (and every other week here in my own space, when I bang on about The Carpenters). Minor detail. Anyway, since I've really got nothing else to write about except the same old boring as batshit bogan shtick, I think we can all just overlook that and go with it, right? Besides, whether I'm really a bogan or not is debatable. I live in bogan territory and that alone is enough for some folk. So ner. Added to the fact that I write gibberish with dubious attention to grammar and phrases like so ner. So ner. NER NER NER NER!!
THIS turned up in my Facebook feed the other day.
To the person who posted it, it worked. I am, quite frankly annoyed that nobody is with me on this cancel Christmas thing. It will be your own fault when you feel like poking your own eyeballs out from hearing Mariah Carey wailing about what she wants for Christmas for the billionth time. You've been warned.
Another thing that has been bothering me of late is the fact that I suddenly remembered that a few months ago a lovely blogger presented me with one of those Leibster Awards or some such thing. Anyway, because I perpetually have my head lodged firmly up my posterior and I'm SUCH a space cadet I have forgotten who that lovely person was and not responded. So, whoever you were THANKYOU. It's not you, it's me, okay?
And that brings me limping to the end of this pointless post about nothing. Stay tuned for the next post when I'll actually blog about SOMETHING. Or nothing again. You never know. Ahem.
Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.
' Should I really ask another pointless question? Oh look, I did!
