I have no idea where this post is going.
A lightbulb in my room went out and I'm blaming that for my lack of inspiration because you can't have a "Lighbulb moment" without a ligthtbulb. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.
I babysat until two this morning, so you should all be really nice and go easy on me.
I'm so uninspired. CURSE YOU WRITER'S BLOCK.
I've just discovered that the 'p' key on my keyboard is being temperamental. The sad part is I can't even come up with a halfway decent joke about this.
What's the difference between roast chicken and pea soup?
Anyone can roast chicken...
My good friend Kiersten suggested I do a post on how perfect she is. But then I realised that would just make everyone else (me included) jealous of her perfection...
Hey, Asher, remember when I was going to write my speech on all the things I knew about you? Good times, good times.
I should have tried to write this at two o'clock this morning instead.
What WAS I doing at two AM?
That's right, I was trying to write a sonnet and kind of vaguely watching Wimbledon. I was actually quite proud of myself because I tend to write in eight syllable lines as opposed to ten syllable lines, so getting four ten syllable lines was quite an achievement. They're probably not iambic pentameter (stresses still confuse me a little, so I can't tell) but they're ten syllable rhyming lines, which is a pretty good effort at that time of night.
I asked my lovely boyfriend Daniel (who insisted on staying up to keep me company, bless him) what rhymed with return, to which he replied "Perm? Term? Derm? Firm?".
It took me about fifteen minutes to realise that none of those rhymed with return.
According to my text messages, I also realised the pun in FLOO powder. FLOO powder, chimney FLUE. Well played, J K Rowling. Well played.
And on that mindblowing note, I shall bid you all adieu.