The one problem with being alive that I seem to have is that there are so many people giving bad advice for all the wrong reasons. Don't worry this one shan't be very long. I'm quite offended. I'm too offended to wax lyrical about the cold that I have. Yes, I have a cold. It is quite terrible, but don't worry, tonight I'm rejoicing because I'm going to be out like a light sedated. Night nurse for the win.
Once upon a time, I was feeling a bit down about the blog, and I said to this useless friend of mine, "Friend, I don't know what to do to move this blog forward."
Before I continue I think its only right that I tell you all how useless this friend is. Ah! My foes! He is so bad that it would be better for me if I had never made his acquaintance. I mean have you ever had a friend with a basket mouth? All the gist you dispense will just keep coming back to you like your words are boomerangs. One day, I had to make that dreaded call. Yes, I called him and said, please, please, please and please, don't talk about me to anyone ever. I now it's a little bit over the top but what else could I do. I don't need anyone telling me about the brief moment of madness I had when Captain Reginald died. I really don't. If you do give my stories away, then please don't give it to people who are so tactless as to bring it back to me.
I do quite like his company, but I don't know why I'm either hearing about my matter from someone that I hardly know, or hearing about someone else's matter. Nothing is privileged. Nothing is sacred. I don't like this very much. You see, I don't like being tickled or poked. I absolutely despise being touched. So when this individual chose to reject my vehement protests against being carried, and lifted me in the middle of the road, I was ready to do murder. My body is my own. It is not anybody else's. I own it. And if I say that I do not want to be touched, carried or tickled, then I shall not be touched carried or tickled. It is a big deal. It is the biggest deal. You don't treat the holy Afam temple of Afamness like it's a dustbin. How dare you? Do you know what has been spent on this temple? Do you know how many prayers have been prayed over this temple? So when the temple says, Thou shalt not touch me! And you do, you're going to get it. And he did. At first I panicked, and seized up, then I remembered that I had the control. He got a double punch and an accidental head butt. It sounds extreme but it isn't to me. If you touch me without permission I shall die. I'm not joking. I will literally die.
I can't stress this enough. Sometimes a hand on my shoulder is like a line of fire. I lost myself there. Let's get back to it.
"Afam, both the story and the way it's written cannot be funny. Only one of them can be funny."
"Friend, say what???"
"Afam, I know what I'm talking about. I have an English A level."
I didn't say anything after that. I couldn't. What could I have said? When someone demeans everything, you can't teach them value. My words have no value, my body has no value, and my stories don't either. It's sad, but it's really not that sad. For some reason, I still think he's a friend, even though he isn't my favourite friend at the minute.
I'll conclude this now.
If blogging were easy, everyone would do it. If writing were easy then everyone would do it. Because not everyone does it, and even among the ones that do, so few do it well, it is safe to assume that it is actually ridiculously difficult, and that the impression of ease when it's done well is an exercise in mastery.