I'm experimenting today. Instead of coming to you with something already planned, I'm going to let my fingers do the talking. Well, the typing. But my fingers always do the typing, don't they? Well, my fingers will type while my mind wanders aimlessly into odd and ends and ins and outs. Understand? No? Good enough.
So things. Things are things and some of these things I like. Other things I'm not a big fan of. Not sure why. Maybe it has to do with personal tastes or maybe a clash of beliefs. Who knows? God knows. And the Shadow knows. Wait, the Shadow doesn't know why I'm not a fan of them. But he knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men. Then he laughs after stating what said evils are. He's maniacally heroic like that, don't ya know?
I just did a spell check. No misspellings found, thus far. Maybe a few grammatical errors, but not misspellings. That's fine. I'm okay with grammatical errors. Who cares if the I have adjectives and adverbs mixed up? Do you? You do? Well, you must be a communist. How dare you disagree with me and the wonderful world of capitalism. You and your communism. How dare you. I have no love for you.
Itchy hand. Wonder why it itches so. No bites there. No scratches. No scabs. No reason for it to itch. But it just started itching. Odd. Many things are odd. You most likely find me odd, right now. If you do and you're actually enjoying it, then you're alright. But if you think me being odd is just too odd, go to the previous paragraph and start reading it at the seventh sentence. Eventually you'll make your way back here. Unless you went back again. Then you'll wind up reading in circles and never read what I'm typing right now. Therefore it would be useless for me to even be explaining this thus wasting the time of the people who enjoy my oddness. But there might be a chance they get entertainment out of your childlike ignorance. If this is the case, everyone wins. Except the communists.
My dog was outside for fifteen minutes. I let him out to go to the bathroom. He comes in and starts sniffing around. He doesn't need food and water. He has that already. Maybe he needs out again, despite the fact he just came in. I let him out. He urinated. But he did that when I let him out the first time. Cowboy, I hope you're okay. Many of you may be alarmed by this, thinking his bladder may be having problems due to his age. Worry not, dear friend. He just drank the rest of his water when he came back in. Did I forget to mention this earlier? I did? Well, I'll remember not to do that again. Thank you for informing me.
SweeTarts are more tart than sweet, in my humble opinion. Humble opinion. Is it really humble? I'm stating it, hoping people will listen to me and maybe adopt this opinion. Doesn't seem too humble to me. I'll restate that. In my opinion. There. Problem solved. I'm glad you read that and have now taken this opinion and are touting it about as if it is your own. But it is not your own. It's not my own. Many people could have this opinion.
One reason I'm writing this is to prove that drugs and alcohol are not needed for random writing such as this. If you're bored enough; eccentric enough; hyper enough; occasionally pretentious enough; and have a means to put the words down, then you too can do such a feet. Try it sometime. You may be surprised.
Olivia and Murphy just drank my last two Jones Sodas. How dare they. This means war, my cerebral cellmates. This. Means. War. Sleep with one eye open.
You are most likely confused. Objective: complete.
Who are you? And why are you reading this? I'd honestly like to know. Seriously. Tell me. Who are you? I really WANT to know.
These people befuddle me on occasions. Like my father. He's standing there watching the television. This is nothing out of the ordinary. But I'm taking into consideration what it is on the television he's watching. The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack. Why is he stopping to actually pay attention to it? It's not normally a show he'd take any interest in. Why?
I just let Cowboy out again. He left a present on the porch. He does that sometimes because he feels since he's a dog, he doesn't have to conform to the behavioral codes of society. Fight the power, Cowboy.
Olivia said my mom bought that cherry Jones for her. No she didn't, Olivia. She specifically said "I bought you some Jones, Tanner. Better hide it." "You" refers to me, Olivia. "Me" being Tanner. "Tanner" being the one writing this. "The one writing this" being someone who is a bit too out there at times. Some still find it hard to believe I don't use drugs. Do I really come across that way?
I was accused of being a pot-smoking hippy by the pickle vendor at the Ren Faire. How dare he.
I think I've written enough.
Tanner Criswell Roberts.