Unintended Serialization; Dilemma’s Double Indemnity- Part Two

 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all. 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all.

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