WolfQueen Smith's Alternate Universe

I am not a blogger. I don't blog. I don't even find the word itself attractive looking. Blog...sounds like a broken foghorn or like something a toad would cough up after eating a particularly nasty-tasting bug. My life isn't all that interesting to me anyway. I have never really kept a journal without gritting my teeth. I mean you live through something and then you have to record it and live through it again and that might be okay if you won the lottery or were just asked to be the wife of some king in a faraway land of magic, but then you could afford to have someone record it for you if you were still so pressed for something to do that you would record anything at all.

There is so much to do in the 3D world but it seems I am at the keyboard more and more these days. I go shopping and the first place I head is to electronics to check out another keyboard. I just found this great noiseless one because the tapping of the keyboard at the end of the day is worse than listening to someone chew with their mouth open.

I think eventually we will turn into a race of people with long, strong fingers that could poke out the eye of a bull at 200 yards only if we can support the huge heads we will have. Already I feel like I am just a head with fingers with little mouths at the ends that express my every thought and desire to the clacking sound that my pet bird, Ophelia, now imitates. So even when I am not typing, he is. Yes, it is a he named Ophelia, a long sordid story for another day. He bangs his head on his water dish with his beak and it sounds remarkably like typing. He doesn't get the typos I do though, and I don't get the headache he does.

Last week, my assistant and I were going to town for some such nonsense and I had my ankle crossed on my knee and as I was answering her conversationally baited hooks, I was unconsciously typing the entire exchange on my leg as we were speaking. She gave me a weird look and said that I am going to get out more if she has to drag me out of this mausoleum bodily, dragging my keyboard behind me, of course. I can just see it bumping unhappily along the ground twisting and turning as it rebels at being off of my desk where it has a cushy life. Sits on six feet of antique cherry wood, a sculpture, books, a few candles, a candy dish full of Soft Chew Vanilla Creme Rolaids, my new favorite candy with a purpose, and Halls Tropical Fruit cough drops because I am allergic to the bird and the cats who live in the house with me so I am always stuffed up. I have dreams about being a mouth-breather. Of course phones, monitor, all the rest of the office stuff. Why would a keyboard want to leave all that. This keyboard needs to know who the boss is anyway. If I have to leave, it has to come too. Fair is fair.

So, I am blogging. I am a blogger. I blog. I blog, therefore I am.