Some of you have already noticed, but FreethoughtBlogs has been forced to put countermeasures in effect against various and sundry trolls who thought it the height of funny to pretend to be regulars saying disgusting things. If this has an adverse effect on your ability to comment, please let me know at dhunterauthor at yahoo dot com.
(Trolls need not let me know, because they’ll end up spammed whilst I laugh and laugh at their pathetic selves. Sad, really, that some people are such ineffectual losers they are reduced to lurking around blogs hoping their misbehavior earns them a cookie from other misbehaving dumbfucks. If I myself had such mad playground taunt skillz and the ability to lie with abandon, I wouldn’t be wasting them at FtB, but would be selling them to Fox News or the local Republican party for cash money. But I suppose that’s just because I don’t have the soul of a Troll Artist.)
A request has been made for the dragonfly porn to be displayed forthwith. But you cannot rush these things. Not when you have just the right soundtrack, and needs must only combine same with photos just so in order to create a masterpiece. Believe me when I say it will be worth the wait.
Also, interest has been expressed in the status of my nicotine habit. It has now, officially, been a month, and I am still smoke-free. Yes, I still want a cigarette at times. Yes, some people in my life have noticed my lack of patience with stupidity. But I think they’re putting irritations down to quitting that don’t belong there – I’ve always been like that, it’s just that they’re noticing for the first time because I no longer smell of stale tobacco smoke.
What I have wanted more of is solitude, and food, and Doctor Who, all of which I provided myself with in abundance over the weekend. Currently, I’m gorging myself on P.G. Wodehouse novels. Yes, while I’m supposed to be blogging. Yes, while my email lies horribly neglected, even so. It’s a reaction to work, which has decided they desperately need a weekly newsletter. Being run off my feet writing, I am. Not to mention fighting with recalcitrant text boxes in Word. Don’t talk to me about Word. Especially don’t talk to me about the fact that Word is, presently, the only publishing program I can weasel out of my employers. Do you understand now my anomie, my anguish, my desire to bury myself deep in British literature and television?
Don’t worry, I’ve also written some blog posts. They only need to be typed and pictures appended to make them complete for your viewing pleasure. But first, Wodehouse. And some more Doctor Who.
Don’t rush me, my subconscious is busy working on dragonfly porn.