an interview, maybe

well, if you, o beloved non-existant readers, read my comments at all, then you will know that mike (sounds so nice. mike. like i might sit down with that fella at our favorite watering hole. "you want another fat tire, mike?") has invited me to do an interview.

commence the duality that is darth sardonic, your humble narrator, in stream-of-concious form.

first of all, an interview? seriously?!? like i am some celeb or bigshot in the blogging community? i mean really, c'mon, we all know that at best i am the guy at the party whom everyone agrees is funny as fuck, but no one can really remember his name or even who invited him to the party in the first place.

what does "mike" get out of it?

god, that is so cool. i am totally gonna fill out the interview, have a little fun with the answers, and try to present myself in my usual, inimitably humble and self-deprecating way.

so, the two halves that are my whole having duked it out, and with a certain amount of a "i'm really too good for this silliness" attitude, i fill out the interview.

when i submit it, i get a page telling my that my cpu is too full or some other such nonsense. which means i really am not even sure that my interview went through, and am not too sure on how to find out if it did or not. so, in a manner that is very true to both halves of my whole, i think:

if it went through, cool. if not, sod it, i aint fucking filling that shit out again.

so there you have it. if the interview went through, and you have any clue where to find it, help yourself. if not, meh, what do i care? i don't foresee it will significantly skew my life one way or the other.

god, i love being a walking, talking dichotomy, heh heh.

20 days, devotchkas and malchicks, less than three weeks. i occupy my time with tending to the extra cleaning i want to accomplish before the wife gets home (next week i tackle the bathrooms. i hate, and i mean fucking hate cleaning bathrooms. and at this juncture we aren't just talking a wipe-down here and there, we are talking strip down to shorts, splash water everywhere, souse the bathrooms in inhalant-laden cleaners and disinfectants, and scrub. and scrub. and scrub. rinse, repeat. (see visions. develop headache.) (and lest this description bring up horrible visuals (i am picturing the "worst toilet in scotland," hahahaha, just kidding (mostly, i am just trying, at this point, to see how many parentheses i can use in the same paragraph (i gotta lust for life)), let's remember who we are talking about here, and remember my penchant for overexaggeration (which really seems a bit redundant, does it not? overexaggeration. overexaggeration. yes, definitely not a very clever word, i must kick my own ass).) the bathrooms aren't really as bad as all that.), and scrabbling to hang on to whatever tiny scraps of sanity i may have left (i think i wrote my grocery list on one: scrap of paper. scrap of sanity. dammit).

if you, o beloved bemused befuddled non-existant reader, think that last paragraph was hard to read, you should've tried being the one writing it. i am sure i forgot a closing parenthesis or punctuation in there somewhere.

i must be related to e.e. cummings somewhere along the line.

thanks for playing along,

darth sardonic