08 September 2014

Sort of a botched posting

First things first: the image. Every written text needs an image, otherwise no literate person will understand its meaning. The image below is a photograph from a note that I wrote to myself. My purpose was to remind myself to write a blog entry recounting two distinct experiences: (1) about that time when I met the children picking crab apples, and (2) about the time when I was accosted by white-shirted missionaries. Since I already fulfilled the first duty in a previous post, I'll tackle the second one today. The reason I put off this latter task is that I was trying to enjoy life.

The crab apples posting is at this address, by the way. Below is my account of meeting the missionaries.

Meeting the missionaries:

Now that I've written this far, I realize that I'd rather not tell the story. And it's not even a story, because there's no plot, because nothing really happened. I wish I could say that we argued and soon came to blows, but the problem is that these missionaries are too nice for that.

My friend and I were walking in my neighborhood. I'm sort of like the boss man or head mobster of the place where I live, which place is almost as tough as the land called Brooklyn.

I'm just joking about my role as a mobster, really — and the place where I live is neither tough nor pretty — I'm just trying to bolster my interest in writing about this event by amusing myself.

So anyway, we're walking down the block and we see two twin forms. I call them "twin forms" because they were dressed identically. They wore black pants and white shirts. They were humans, I think. And each wore a black tie, also... but honestly now I can't remember if that's exactly true - the tie part, I mean. Maybe they didn't wear ties... This event happened a couple weeks ago (as I said, I keep putting off recounting it), so the details of what factually occurred have had some time to become acquainted with the less prudent aspects of my imagination. (My imagination has full authority over the section of my mind called 'memory'.)

So these human males in white shirts and black pants approach alarmingly close to me and my friend, and they begin walking alongside us like we invited them to do so. Like we're all one happy family of four. Then the blonde one says, "It's a nice day for a walk." And I say, "Yeah." And I'm sure that I had a strained look on my face, even though I was trying to appear unconcerned; because it's hard to maintain your composure when two identically uniformed strangers begin walking by your side and talking as if you all are accustomed to meeting like this on the regular.

Giving up

I really don't want to write any more about this. I don't care about missionaries. I mean, I wish them the best of possible existences. I hope that they live in big houses and possess upwards of 37 automobiles. I will peacefully tolerate the whole world converting to their viewpoint. In fourscore years we'll all be elsewhere, anyway.

I'll maybe type something more on the topic in the future. Cheers to the future. I give up now. Let me talk about my laundry washing machine.


My laundry washing machine is filling up with water. As the water blasts into the basin, I add the liquid detergent. I like to hold the detergent's cup directly under the stream of incoming water, since this creates a breathtaking amount of suds. Look at all that froth overflowing the cup — it is gushing out like lava from a volcano!


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