In the scribble book I am allowed to have handwriting that looks like a psychopath on a medication free day. Make incomplete sentences. Or compose run on and on and on sentences until my hand cramps up like a claw. I can make endless lists of trivia and use outrageous made up words like, scriborgasmia: the feeling you get while scribbling where the Watcher can’t see. ( May his handwriting manual be shredded by his dog, the old crab faced coot !) I feel like that guy in 1984, what was his name. . .Winston ?
Oh, I know when I’m ready to put all this stuff down in the word processor he’ll get his chance. Spell check will freak and green grammar gremlins will crawl hysterically all over the page. I’ll have to fix some of the errors but I will leave a few. . . out of sheer spite.
Ever try composing a poem in a word processor ? The blasted thing just does not have a poetic line of code in it’s black business oriented soul. It refuses to let me start a new line without capitalizing it for me, never allows an incomplete sentence to go unnoticed and has no idea what the word “ere” means. As in :
Rant on oh mad scribbler !
Thou rampant writer.
Type stealthily by moonlight,
ere Microsoft sees thee coming.
That got him going, you should see the red and green error lines !
I think the Watcher dislikes the poet most of all. We are the kings and queens of incomplete thoughts. He gnashes his teeth and pulls his hair at our cavalier way with words. I’ll add another verse just to annoy him. . .
In the forest dark and mouldy.
In the thicket of toadstoololdy.
Spiders crawl and wormies wiggle.
Gnomes complain and fairies giggle.
There, that feels better. . . Oh look! , he’s running out the door.
NOw i Can rIght jUst aS I wiSH @#$%^&* !
Scribblers of the world UNITE !