Leaving (Travel 2)


coast

I’ve come to find that the immediacy of losing something always increases it’s value.  It doesn’t matter what it is.  Consider the coffee bean, or rather coffee beans, specifically the last few scoops worth.  I always treat them reverently, like they’re the last beans on earth.  In my case, if I’m particularly broke, they might as well be.  I’m sort of afraid to use them, and I’m not really sure why, but when I inevitably do, they taste all the sweeter because I know they’re the last.

boat

As it is with the coffee bean, so too is it with traveling.  I’ve come to my last two weeks in London, and I find that I’m having more fun now than at any other point on the trip.  It’s like being able to see the end has helped me appreciate things I have taken for granted.

london

The beautiful London things that I used to ignore daily suddenly spark an interest in my mind

Tower

Not to mention that I got to go to scotland and see things like this

rocks

Or This

Town

Or This

bikes and castle

 

Now, my newfound enjoyment in all things Britain related might be from my Scotland Trip, or the weather finally breaking, or my stonehenge trip.

stonehenge

 

But I think not.

stonehenge 2

No, it’s because the trip is coming to an end.  All these other things, little trips and the weather, help make it nice, but I appreciate them all the more because soon they will all be gone.

coast2

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I don’t want to go home; far from it.  I am quite looking forward to getting back, seeing the people I had left there, eating proper peanut butter, being able to afford a drink (6 pounds for a G & T at the National?  Come on!) and seeing the sun.  I’ll be quite happy for the trip back, and yet the trip still looms, and in it’s looming, I find more enjoyment in the present.

castle

So to anyone on an extended holiday from their native land I have this to say: the immediacy of your return has a direct, positive correlation to your enjoyment of the place you will soon be leaving.  So enjoy it, because it’ll probably be the most enjoyable part.

edinburgh

And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, especially yourself.  Now is the time to strike.  Do not mope that the journey is over, and soon it will be nothing but memories, go forth and make new ones!  Now is not the time to weep, but to laugh.  Not to sit, but to run.  Not to die, but live.

castle 3

So go.

Just go.

And for god’s sake

Enjoy yourself.

 

Troll 2

 

 

 

 

1000 Loyal Followers!


Well, it’s happened.  1000 followers!  Hooray for us!

I’ve decided that, as a 1000 follower event, I’ll post a poll where you, the visitor, can vote on what the next post will be, or maybe what you would like to see more of.

Also, I’ll be posting something very soon, hopefully by next week.  I’ve been caught up in finishing my screenplay and stageplay.

And lastly, some of my collegues at film school are doing a kickstarter to fund their writer’s showcase.  Here’s their website.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/2105625211/fsu-film-school-writers-showcase-2013

If you like film or writers, check it out.

-corngoblin

How to Get 3 Million Blog Views


Dear readers,

I’ve recently been working with a team of researchers from Miskatonic University, whose main goal is the delve into the lost recesses of cyber space and uncover long forgotten blog posts from blogs that, for one reason or another, came offline.  We’ve made some astounding discoveries.  This following piece is a prime example of some of the lost treasures we’ve found.

-The Corngoblin

**********************

3 MILLION VIEWS

3 MILLION VIEWS

Hi guys!  In case you’re new here, my name’s Peter, and I’ve got 3 MILLION VIEWS, and I’d like to show you how you can too.  You guys are obviously familiar with my work since, you know, you’re on the internet, so here we go!

HOW TO GET 3 MILLION VIEWS

I go on a lot of people’s blogs, normally just to post a spam comment so they come look at mine, sure, but it still counts, and there’s one thing I always notice.

They Aint Got 3 million views

Some barely have 1,000!  PATHETIC.  That got me to thinking, why does a famous, successful blogger like myself have so many views?  I mean, so many.  Is it fair that some bloggers get all the views, while other bloggers are relegated to the blogging slums, flighting each other for 10 views a day?  The short answer:

YES, IT TOTALLY IS

It’s called natural selection, or selective blogging, or maybe even blogctual naslection.  Survival of the fittest, and as anyone in the blogosphere could tell you, I’m the fittest, because baby, I’m survivaling.  I feel bad for those pathetic bloggers who don’t have any views, so I’ve decided to take the time out of my busy blogdule (blog-schedule LOL) to try and help those poor unfortunate souls.  First off, if you don’t have many views, then

YOU’RE PROBABLY A BAD WRITER: No offense, but you should just quit.  You’re wasting everyone’s time and taking valuable views away from people like me, who want to get 3 million more.  3 MILLION.

But for those ouf us who are good:

THERE’S HOPE

Follow this list and you too will get…

THREE!  MILLION!

THREE! MILLION!

  1. USE PICTURES: They say a picture is worth 1000 words.  I say a picture is worth:

THREEMILLION
VIEWS

The Joker and I have one similarity: He likes bullets and gasoline, and I like pictures.  What’s the similarity you ask?

joker cheap

Free, even.  So use pictures.  Not only do they get traffic back from google image searches, but they LOOK PRETTY AND ARE FUN TO LOOK AT.

2.GO CLICK LIKE ON OTHER PEOPLE’S BLOGS: They’ll come look back at yours.  Who cares if they don’t read?  It’s not reading you’re going for, its views.  You don’t even have to read they’re posts, just click “like”…

big jerk

3. WRITE SOMETHING CONTROVERSIAL OR OFFENSIVE, YOU IDIOT: If you make people mad, they’ll comment about how stupid you are, and tell their friends to come look at your stupid blog.  Everyone will hate you, but WHO CARES?  It’s the VIEWS.  For instance, did I tell you that Harry Potter is a STUPID IDIOT, and his books are so bad, I have no idea why he wrote them?  And that Lost is the worst thing to be on TV since they showed those videos of that school bus falling off a bridge?  LOL  And Reddit is for stupid fools that don’t know how to use 9gag.  And wordpress?  Don’t get me started on wordpress.  MYSPACE4LIFE, GEOCITES BITCH.

4. ENCOURAGE VIEWER FEEDBACK: Talk to people if they comment on your post.  IT’S ONLY POLITE.

5. DON’T WRITE BAD POSTS: If you write something that’s BAD, then people won’t want to read it.  So don’t write anything that’s bad. I know it comes easy for amazing bloggers like me, but that’s cause im a flippin GENIUS.

*****

After careful research, it was discovered that Peter had been slain, stabbed 30 times with a long knife at a meeting he had arranged for fans of his blogs.  Strangely, there were no witnesses, and none of the 30 fans who had shown up were called in for questioning.  Another internet mystery.

The day when we all get to be Irish, and some leprechauns show up too.


Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

St Patrick’s day is a day when everyone can pretend that they’re Irish, and no one, except maybe real Irish people, will correct you.  Like me, for instance: I’m part Irish.  Barely, true, but barely still counts.  It’s St. Patrick’s day and I have the right to, when asked if I’m Irish, harken back to that distant and far removed ancestor and respond, “why yes of course… um… me lass… I be Irish!  Now who wants a pint of Guinness?”  And then we’d all cheer and sing whisky in the jar or something, and the party goes on.

But ever since last St. Patrick’s day, I’ve been a bit afraid of claiming to be Irish.  Afraid that I’ll be caught.  It’s the Leprechauns, you see.  They  monitor these things, making sure that no one other than true Irish people claim to be Irish on St. Patrick’s day.  Before I learned this, I had always wondered what use Leprechauns were, other than terrifying Jennifer Anniston, though not quite enough it seems, (to death being the implication here).

Warwick Davis is the man.

Clearly, it didn’t.

Leprechauns are wee folk with fairy magic, at least at the most basic description.  If one were to apply to fill a vacant leprechaun position, the conversation would proceed as follows:

“Are yeh wee?” The interviewer would ask.  He could have just looked to see.  One wonders why he need ask, but that’s the way these sorts of things go sometimes.  It’s all about the protocol.

“Oh, aye.” Responds the applicant, which is generally considered to be the most correct answer.

“And have yeh the fairy magics?”

“Oh aye.  That I do.”

“Loverly.  Yer hired.”

What leprechauns actually do has very little to do with being wee or being able to wield the fairy magics.  Leprechauns are tasked with keeping Ireland green,  like a glittering emerald, and magic, like a magical emerald.  There’s a special division for rainbow production and installation as well, but we won’t get into that right now.

You think Ireland looks like that on it's own?  No, what you see here my friend is centuries of hard leprechaun work.

You think Ireland looks like that on it’s own? No, what you see here my friend is centuries of hard leprechaun work.

The leprechauns have one other task, however, that dwarfs (forgive the pun) all their other duties: to ferret out the fakes, liars, and would be Irishmen on St. Patrick’s day, and humiliate them in front of their friends.

It was an encounter with one performing it’s primary task that, as I hinted before, was nearly my undoing last year.  I was at McCabes Irish pub, down on 5th avenue in Naples, Florida, enjoying a $6 glass of Yeungling with some a of newest and bestest friends I’d ever met (their names escape me now, but I’m relatively sure they all had one) when the question was raised as to whether or not I was Irish.

mccabe's

Now, I have a rather good Irish accent (or at least that’s what I’m told) which, like all Irish accents, is increased both in quality and volume with every alcoholic beverage imbibed.  The current tally was 5, so my confidence in my Irish speaking ability was great indeed.

I had been regailing my new comrades with tales of the homeland: of helping St. Patrick chase away all the bloody snakes, of finding so many pots of gold at the end of rainbows, for rainbows are plentiful on the emerald Isle, that I just started throwing them away,  of screeching contests with banshees and Father Ted TV marathons.  They were entranced, and I was having a blast, that is until I felt a gentle but firm tap on my buttocks.

I spun around, fists up and out in traditional Irish fighting form, ready to give the buttocks tapper the old one two, or, if she were a lady, the old wink and smile, but there was no one there.  I turned back to my friends, who must have assumed that spinning around to fight ghosts was just some Irish idiosyncrasy that they were hitherto unaware of (on nights of heavy drinking it often is), and thought nothing of it, other than to give me a rousing cheer.

I went for a bow, and was touched on the buttocks yet again.  I spun around in the same way.

“Alright, yeh livrey bastard, time for me to give yeh what for!”  I shrieked, but yet again, there was no one there.  I looked left.  I looked right.  I looked up.  I looked down.

There stood a leprechaun.  He was wearing a little green suit with a shamrock in his pocket and a green bowler hat, and looked very cross.  He smiled a wolfish grin.

“Hello sir, me names Bleary and I’m—“

“Christ, lads, it’s a real leprechaun!”  I shouted, pointing at it in awe.  I started jumping from foot to foot and giggling.  Everyone at the pub gathered ‘round to gaze at the spectacle.  The Leprechaun shifted his feet, uncomfortable.

“I’m—“

“What’re yeh here for, little fellah?” I asked, like a mom to a child of 6.  He bristled at this and looked me dead in the eye.  God, those eyes!  They looked like gold doubloons!

“I’m here to see if yer really irish.”  He said matter of factly.

“Me?  Irish?  ‘Course I’m Irirsh!  What’s me shirt say?”

“Kiss me, I’m irish, but—“

“’Course it does!” I interrupted.  He scowled.

“But shirts can say any number of things.  Look at that lads!”  The leprechaun pointed to a fat, white man who was wearing a shirt that read “I’m the President”.

“My god…”  I whispered to the leprechaun, “Is that Barack Obama over there, d’yah think?”

“I—what?  No!  ‘Course not!  Are ye daft?” his question went unanswered though, because I had gone over to the fat man and was taking a photo with him.  The leprechaun stared in gawping silence as I snapped the photo and came back over.

“The lads back in Dublin are never gonna believe I met the President of the US of A!”

“Stop it!”  He shouted, stamping his little foot, which jingled.  “You’re not from Dublin and you’re sure as hell not Irish!  You’re just a drunk idiot from Florida!”

“Bah, Florida?  Have you seen his shirt?  It says—“ one of my new friends began before the leprechaun pointed his finger at him and ZAP, turned him into a cask of guinness.

“Sweet St. Patrick!” I gasped, staring at the cask.  “Free beer!”  The Leprechaun face palmed as we swarmed the cask and I passed out drinks.  I felt a bit bad for drinking that guy, but judging from what I’d learned about him in the past two hours, it’s what he would have wanted.

Poor... um... you.

Pour guy…

“Three cheers for our emerald homeland, lads and lassies!  Hip Hip!”

“NO!”  Roared the leprechaun, and the shout filled up the whole pub, shaking the windows and worrying he owner.  Some glasses fell off the shelves.  “Yer not Irish!  None of yah!  Yer just a bunch of drunken fools playin’ at bein’ Irish!  You don’t know the first thing, the first damn thing about what it is to be from Ireland.”   He paused and pointed at a man wearing a Bruins shirt. “Except for you.  You’re actually Irirsh.”  The bruins guy gave a fist pump and cheer, finished his glass, and ordered another.  “Now,” he said, returning to the task at hand, “will yeh stop, or do I have to turn you all into guiness?

The party was dead silent.  Even the band had stopped playing.  The leprechaun glared at us.  No one said a word, except for me.  I think it was the Guinness, but I was feeling particularly brave, like Willow, or Frodo Baggins, or Peter Dinklage, even.

“Why does it matter?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why does it matter if we aren’t Irish?”

“Because you all just want to be Irish on St Patrick’s day, and then it’s back to normal tomorrow!  It’s disrespectful.”

“Not really.  You should feel honored.  I don’t know any other country that has a day when the whole world wants to be them.  It’s a compliment.”

“Yeah!”  Someone else said.  “Ireland’s cool!”

“Here here!”

“Hoorah!”  The bar shouted.  Everyone at the bar started throwing their two cents in, and I could see we were getting through to the Leprechaun.  He was visibly softening.

“So will you have a pint of…” I looked at the cask.

“Jerry!” someone shouted.

“Will yeh have a pint of Jerry with us, and forget yer sorrows till the morrow?  Me lad?”

The leprechaun looked at each of us, scowling, until his eyes finally came to rest me.  And then he smiled.

“Yeh had me at jerry.”  He said with a wink.  To this day I’m not quite sure what he meant by that, but whatever, I was 7 beers deep and thinking wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the time.  We all cheered and the music started back up (whisky in the jar again ,I think).  The Leprechaun grabbed a pint of Jerry, and smashed it against mine.  My mug broke, and cut my hand quite badly, but it was St. Patrick’s Day, and a bloody and ruined hand was a small price to pay for getting to be Irish, even if it was just for a night.

*****

Author’s note: Thanks for reading.  Hope you liked it and I hope you have a great St. Patrick’s day, wherever you are.  I wanted to take time at the end of this post to thank Melissa K. Martin for giving me the “very inspiring blogger award”.  I’ll get around to doing the required things at some point, but it was a lovely gesture.  Happy St. Patrick’s day!

The Magic Hobo


Image

I was lying in Hyde Park at midnight on a Saturday, counting the stars.  I was the only person in the area, and I was shocked at the lack of stars.  It must be because I was in the middle of London, and the city lights blocked them out.  I missed the view from the beach back in Florida, a black sky painted with burning white spots over a dark blue sea.  I was shocked yet again when a noise like the snapping of a twig caught my attention, and a homeless person was standing directly in front of me.

He wore a long, brown overcoat, soiled and filthy.  Beneath that he wore an menagerie of clothing that he had crudely sewn into a massive parka of sorts.  A blue polo shirt made up part of a sleeve, three t-shirts and a tank top made up the front, and two sweater vests made up a sleeve on the other side.  Instead of pants he wore a bizarre  kilt made out of bed linens and towels, that reached down to his shabby leather boots, which seemed to be made from two boots each.  He wore a grubby, faded and torn top hat on his head.

He was seven feet if he was an inch, and he had an untamed mane of hair that I suppose constituted for a beard, that reached well down past his waist and covered the majority of his face, so that all you could really make out were two beady eyes and a large, round nose.  There were… things in his beard, that might have once been small animals or food, but that had now been subsumed into the ungainly collective of hair.  His stench was unbearable, like a trashcan full of feces and rotting squirrels.

He asked me if I would like to see a Magic Trick.

Now, when a homeless man looms over you, blocking the starlight in Hyde Park with his bulk, and asks you if you would like to see a Magic Trick, it’s most likely not the sort of trick you would wish to see, but rather something truly horrible and scarring, so I of course said no.

He showed me one anyway.

He clapped his hands together, his knit, fingerless gloves making a dry, dusty crack. He pulled his hands apart slightly, and a brilliant yellow light surrounded us.  He looked up at me and gave me a knowing smile, and it was the first time I was able to tell that he had a mouth.  His gold teeth glittered in the light like aztec gold.  He pulled his hands the rest of the way, and as he drew them apart, a rainbow formed in between them.  He swung his arms in a big arc, like he were throwing paint to the sky, and created a rainbow as big as his wingspan.  It shimmered in a fragile way that reminded me of an especially thin sculpture of blown glass.

I was awestruck.  I reached out to touch it, but with a wave of his hand the rainbow disappeared.  Sparkles and stardust rained down on my face, but disappeared like snow flakes on warm day upon contact with my body.  He bowed, and I applauded.  It took me a moment to realize that the applause seemed oddly stereo, and I looked around and discovered that a pair of rabbits were sitting on either side of me and applauding as well.  The hobo bowed again and held up his hands for silence.  We obeyed.

He asked if I’d like to see another.

I said sure.

He rubbed his hands together excitedly and then presented me his shirt cuffs.  He pulled back his sleeves to demonstrate that there was indeed nothing up them.  There wasn’t anything there, but the rabbits got up to inspect his sleeves more closely anyway.  They’re untrusting creatures.

He reached up into his sleeve and began to pull out many lightly colored squares of cloth, tied together in a long line.  He began to pace around us, laying down cloth in a large circle, one line adjacent to the next, so that each new rotation had a greater circumference than the last.  He must have pulled out a full mile of cloth, until the length finally ended with his undershirt and underwear, an almost obligatory occurrence for any “pulling cloth out of my sleeves trick”, and we were surrounded by a gigantic spiral of color, far more than any one man could fit up his sleeve, even a man of his great size.

He bowed again, and we applauded ecstatically.  The audience was now positively packed with creatures of the park: squirrels and rabbits, snakes and beetles, sparrows and pigeons.  Some of the wiser ones had brought snacks like peanuts and popcorn to munch on during the show.  They joked and laughed with one another, having a jolly time.  I eyed them enviously.

He asked us if we would like to see another Magic Trick.  We roared in approval, stood up and screamed in approval, beat our chests and slobbered for more.  He smiled widely.

The homeless man, who I was now beginning to think wasn’t your run of the mill hobo, raised his hand yet again for silence.  He stood there, with his head down, humming to himself, like in meditation, at first quietly, and then louder and louder, until he was positively shrieking.  His arms, which at first were held at the center of his chest in prayer, rose with his pitch, until his body was forming a cross.

It was then we noticed he was levitating 13 feet in the air.  The crowd was dumbstruck, silent.

And then we applauded.

We applauded like we had been struck blind at birth and this homeless conjuror had restored our sight.  We applauded like it was the end of the world, and it’s entire history was on stage, taking a bow.  We applauded like this, and only this, was the only thing ever worth applauding for.

I hollered for more.

He was suddenly on the ground.  There was no transition.  The sound of the applause had changed, too.  I looked around.  There was no one else there, no squirrels or rabbits, snakes or beetles, sparrows or pigeons.

Just him and me.

He stalked towards me, breathing heavily through his mouth.  He got very close, his face mere centimeters from mine. I could almost taste the rancid smell of old Sainsbury’s apple cider creeping out of his mouth.  He smiled, and I could see the sores on his gums, and the rot in his teeth that had once been gold.

He asked me if I would like to see the Last Trick, and he smiled like a crocodile.  I only wept and nodded.

He backed up a few feet and stood by himself for a moment.  He clapped his hands, one last time, and changed.

The change was instantaneous.  What was once a ratty old hobo was now a beautiful, young woman.  She wore bright neon spandex leggings, a zebra print, loose fitting shirt, and large hoop earrings.  She seemed to have been taken straight from the 1980’s.

She smiled sweetly, and kind of sadly, like she pitied me.

“At last.” She said.  Something was strange.  Despite sitting down, I was almost at eye level with her.  I shifted around, and my movement made a strange rustling sound.  A disturbing sound.  A sudden thought, a terrible thought, crept into my mind, and my face contorted with dread.  My heart beat harder and harder, faster and faster as I lifted my hands to my face, and saw the ratty, fingerless gloves.  I clapped them together and they made a dry, dusty sound.  I reached for the top of my head, and found a small, grubby top hat.  I felt my long scraggly beard, and the filth up my sleeves.

I was he.

“Quite a trick.” She said, adjusting her makeup as she looked into a mirror she was holding.  “I hoped you paid attention.  You really should have paid attention.”  She snapped the mirror shut and returned it to her purse.  “I would say I’m sorry, but he wasn’t.  He never is.”

And with that she walked out of my life, leaving me alone, at midnight in Hyde Park on a Saturday.  I wondered if it had to be Saturday at midnight for the trick to work, but I realized I had time to figure it out.  I had all the time in the world.  I fell back onto the grass and looked up at the sky.  My god, it was full, full of stars.

It was only inevitable, after all…


Well dear readers, it seems we have reached yet another milestone.  I’ve finally gotten a blog award.

Uh-oh! Party Spock’s back! Looks like we’ll be tearin’ up the clubs with our cold, unfeeling logic tonight!

I have, this very weekend in fact, been nominated for two blogger awards, first from the estimable sued51 of http://sued51.wordpress.com/, and secondly from the incomparable Exceeding the Speed Limit, of http://exceedingspeed.wordpress.com/ .  Congratulations.  Your loyalty has been duly noted…

As for the rest of you…

Behold, your punishment!

Anyway, I encourage you to go a visit their blogs.  Sued51 gave me the sunshine award, I suppose for bing luminous, though more likely because I somehow brightened her day.

Here’s what it looks like

I’m glad I could help.  Exceedingspeed gave me the one lovely blog award, for having a lovely blog.  Again, I say thank you.

And this is that one.

Now, Down to Business

Reports have reached me that there are certain… requirements one must fulfill in order to fully receive an award.  Many bothans died to bring me this information, and so I thought it only fair that I would act on it as soon as possible.  Apparently, I have to answer some questions about myself, though the intelligence the bothans had stolen was damaged and incomplete.  I would have gotten quite upset with them, but they managed to let me know that the new death star isn’t fully manned or fully operational yet.

Excellent! Commence the attack!

Plus, they’re all dead anyway, and you can only beat a corpse so many times before your arm gets tired, so what’s the point in being mad?

Some Facts About Me

  1. My favorite time of year: is fall.  I wrote a post about it in a drunken fit of ecstasy  the likes of which I won’t see for quite some time.  I’m broke and out of booze.  Alas, such is life.  You can read it here.
  2. My Theme Song: Fear of the Dark by Iron Maiden.  Not only is it one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite bands, but I both am afraid of the dark and enjoying scaring people when I hide in the dark.
  3. What would you like to change about yourself?  I would like to not have allergies.  That would be awesome.  Also, if I could shoot lasers out of my eyes…
  4. What is it that you do, anyway? I am currently a graduate film student at the FSU college of motion picture arts.  I’m in the screenwriting program.  When I’m not doing that, I’m usually plotting with pinky on how best to take over the world.
  5. Whats your favorite time of day? Morning.  Easy.  I love coffee, breakfast food (bacon, donuts and CHICKEN BISCUITS) , and the sunrise.  These things all go hand in hand, and each one is complimented by the other, so that when all three are combined, this happens:
  6. What would possess someone to draw this?  Coffee, sunrise, bacon.  EVERY.  TIME.

    What is your favorite day:  Thursday.  It has both the knowledge that the week is now more than half over, and the tangible anticipation of the fun the weekend will bring.  It’s much like Christmas.  I enjoy it’s build up much more than the actual day.  Therefore the penultimate christmas experience is Christmas Eve.  I still have trouble getting to sleep on Christmas Eve.

    7. What is your favorite physical activity? Pillaging.  Second?  Ultimate Frisbee.

    8.What is your favorite DnD class?  Wizard, easy.  What’s not to like?

    9. What is your favorite monster?  Cthulhu, though he is more of an ancient one, a being from the stars, and an old god than a “monster,” though he is most certainly “monstrous.  H. P. Lovecraft is one of my favorite writers, and Cthulhu is one of his greatest creations.  There’s even a Metallica song about it.

    10. Favorite Clint Eastwood Movie?  This is a tough one.  I think I’d have to go with “Fistful of Dollars.”  The good, the bad, and the Ugly is awesome, but it’s so long.  I just watch it for the shootout at the end, which is one of my favorite scenes in anything ever.

    11. What is your Ideal Villain Lair?  An inactive volcano, that is secretly active, so that when the hero’s army invades, you can flood the complex with lava and be done with his pitiful attempts to foil you forever.

    12. What is your favorite movie that takes place in Bruges? …In Bruges.

    13. Who is your favorite author? Sir Terry Pratchett.  He is absolutely fabulous.  Go read all of his books, now!

    14. What is your favorite foreign language?  German, because I know it.

    Well, thats quite enough of that.  Now I suppose I have to nominate some other blogs.  Let’s see…

    1. http://movealongblog.blogspot.com/ writes about karate, philosophy, and everything in between.  Who cares if she is on blogspot and not wordpress?  That’s her challenge, not mine.

    2. http://giddysap.wordpress.com/  has fun pictures and interesting musings.  Giver her a read.

    3. http://doesthishappentoyou.wordpress.com/ blogs about funny everyday stories, and occasionally reblogs/narrates some of my own.

    4.http://jacquedhoward.wordpress.com/ is a fellow writer who has a very organized, interesting, and delightful blog.  I am jealous of it’s ease of use and scroll bar thing on the homepage.

    5.http://somethingfathappened.wordpress.com/ writes about… um wow… everything and everything, and everything in between the two.

    6. http://darkofficehumour.wordpress.com/ writes humorous things, and has a book too.  Lucky.  I wish I had a book.  Though I dont have one due to lack of trying.  Maybe one day…

    Well, thats about it.  I’m glad i’ve finally gotten a blog award.  I’ve been waiting a long time.  As the title states, though, it was only inevitable, and so to anyone waiting for their first one who may happen to read this, I have one thing to say to you.  It’ll happen eventually.  It is only inevitable, after all.

%d bloggers like this: