As I'm sat here, strangely browsing websites I've been to not five minutes earlier, desperate for something new to have appeared to relieve my boredom, I see something move in the corner of my eye.
On my windowsill, at eyeheight, something black flickers across. Now, we have a lot of spiders in the house, so I assume there is one watching me, but nothing is there.
Then it happens again, and again. Now I'm freaked to sit this close to the window in case some evil fucker of a poisonous jumping spider is waiting until my senses are dulled to pounce.
The shit my brain does to me is just untrue.
I hate my briain. I love my imagination. I hate that I believe my brain telling me my imagination is true. I love the stories I tell myself.
I'm just weird, let's call it true and say goodnight.
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A writer of unpublished stories, a singer of out of tune songs, a man of talents as yet undiscovered. Yep, so far I've achieved very little, but that's all about to change as I declare 2006 "The Year of Rob". Strike a heroic pose, and off we go.
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