Confessions of a Rambler

I ramble all the time, but only in my head. I hardly confide, since I do not like to be judged. Just now, I was having some difficulty finding the log out button. I gave up, since I have this even more pressing need to ramble and rant.

I was born in the 70s, and in my childhood through early adulthood, I can remember thinking about many things a lot, but none I would consider a rant. A rant or rambling is something I view as negative, a need to vent, without any purpose, or any attempt to resolve the issue that caused the rant. I believe, with time, this constant ramblings will be unconsciously spoken out aloud, to the extent that those around you can actually hear your thoughts. Scary huh? Keep up the rambling!

Here I am, sitting at my cubicle in the office, skiving off. While other colleagues at least pretend to be working, I don’t even bother. If you are reading this, continue at your peril, for you won’t find any cure here.

I have many hobbies to keep myself sane, and among them: Knife collecting, film photography (yes, film! you heard me right.), writing journals with fountain pens (if scratching out the words” the quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog” continuously on expensive paper counts as journaling), woodworking (I have enough tools in my attic to make a 19th century joiner blush), fishing (or fishing reel collecting, fly-tying), among others I’ve given up. I’ve given up reading, after sampling Lovecraft’s Novella collection (Call of Cthulu), preferring Metallica’s rendition over Lovecraft’s ancient grammar and syntax (whatever that means) While I’m at these, I’m relatively sane. But sometimes, in a lift, or at a traffic junction, I caught myself slipping out a sentence of my thought to a stranger. Which wouldn’t matter, had the words not been “wow, decent ass” “full and spilling out..” God! I’m a dirty old man. No. I’m worse than that. I’m a crazy dirty old man.

Help me. Someone help me find that log out button before my co worker walks in..

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