This is a ridiculous thing that keeps happening. I have so many witty, urbane, observational thoughts in my head during the day but whenever I get down to writing here they all disappear.
I could write something fascinating about sociology or politics, which are my main foci (oh don't be ridiculous with your vocabulary, you utter blancmange) but the most I could muster would be some feeble done-to-death tirade about Tory cuts or some attempt to pretend I understand the complexities of Middle Eastern geopolitics by talking about Gaddafi or some such rubbish.
Sollte ich vielleicht Deutsch sprechen, weil das eine andere Interesse ist? Nein, glaube ich. Kann nichts interessant sagen. Schade, weil diese wunderbare Sprache so schön ist, dass mein Blog viel besser aussieht.
I could go to bed. It is, after all, midnight. The witching hour. Maybe if I don't, though, a Big Friendly Giant will whisk me off to save the Queen. But then again that would offend my republicanism, so maybe I should sleep.
But beforehand, I'll leave a list of things I could write about in the future. Like a totally uninteresting version of a time capsule.
Racists
The Daily Mail
Tory cuts
Royalty
Americans
British people
Music
Grapefruit
Blancmanges
Pointless lists
Self-conscious entries in lists which illuminate the artifice of the construction in a postmodern way
Bananas
I remain your good and faithful servant,
antmoorfield.
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