Your eyes. Chapter One.

"You don't want to see this," your eyes say. This is the reason your eyes give for not allowing you to roll them back into the cavernous recesses of your skull. "You wouldn't want to see what's back here."

Your eyes have become quite presumptuous of late.

Your eyes say, "Look over here," and so you do. They ask if you would like to see something unimaginable, and you nod in affirmation. You realize the question is merely a courtesy, since you have no control over where they direct your vision, anyhow.

Presently, they are showing you a dusty keyboard covered in a thin layer of dog hair (likely a short-haired breed), red clay dirt, and old rice. You assume the keyboard is attached to an ancient computer from days past and an overweight, yawning monitor, bearing forgotten images of spreadsheets and outdated resumes forever on its unlit screen, together with a ceaselessly blinking rectangle of lime green light in the top left corner. But, it is impossible to be sure at this moment, since your eyes are insistent on keenly noting every detail of the keyboard.

Your eyes ask if you remember the password, but, before even waiting for an answer, quickly rattle back and forth from left to right, as if shrugging off a dumb question, sighing. This unexpected motion leaves you momentarily dizzy as the keyboard swims back into focus.

"I'll just do it," your eyes say.

Sometimes at night you are awoken by your eyes' movement inside your head, their chaotic rustling and shuffling jarring you from peaceful rest. You attempt to look in on them- not to reprimand, but simply to get an idea of just what it is they are doing. This never works. Your eyes force the lids back down over themselves and wait, still and silent, until the rest of your body falls instinctually back to sleep.

Other nights, you awake to an inky darkness unlike any you have ever experienced. Your eyes are immeasurably quiet, and, although you know what has happened, it takes your reaching up with tired hands to touch the gaping sockets before you are roused out of slumber enough to realize that your eyes are gone again. Each time this occurs you are at once frightened and furious, and you bound out of bed with vast intent, until you realize the futility of beginning a frenzied manhunt for your eyes without the aid of the eyes themselves. It is a delicate, confusing situation that causes much angst.

Defeated, you sink back into bed and either stare at the ceiling or close your eyelids over that which is not there. You are not sure. You clutch a sweaty pillow and wait for sleep, for your eyes.

NOW you see what happens when nothing happens.

I'm back. I'm back. I will start posting blogs again. No longer will I be checking statcounter.com to see who's viewing my blog, nor will I be responding to comments left on this fucking blog. Furthermore, I will not speak to you about blog postings at the bar, at dinner, or at work. I do not want to talk to you about my blog postings. I do not want to know that you are reading this. I want only to know that you are reading this. Please do not speak or write to me about this blog. I cannot talk about it, or recognize any inference that you are aware of it.

I mean no offense to anyone, especially as the only people that are reading it are people that I truly care about, but I cannot write honestly and with my normal devil-may-care attitude if I know that I might have to explain myself, laugh about something, or reiterate a point about a previous post at a later date. I just can't do it.

Ever since my aunt gave me an article to read over Christmas that had something to do with Time or People awarding 'Person of the Year' to YOU, the blogger (complete with a mirror on the cover of the magazine), I have been utterly disgusted by whatever it is that calls itself the blogosphere. I mean, I haven't even been able to read my sister's blog. And I love that blog, you assholes! I want nothing to do with it, and yet, here I am.

I have many things, DAILY, I mean, are you kidding, HOURLY, that I want to talk shit about, but I just don't want to literally talk about them. That's why I write about it here. Please, PLEASE, just don't ask me about anything you see here. If I go on a press junket to promote this blog, then, please, by all means, ask away. Until then, just read it and take it for what it is. I don't mean to be a dick, but seriously, I'm a dick.

This is all I'll say about this. Obviously, I wouldn't have a blog if I didn't want a lot of people to read and appreciate it- that's the narcissist's mission. But, do I really have to recap it with you at the bar two days later? I don't want that. Let's just let it be what it is: A filling of time until each of our inevitable deaths. So, with that being said, until next time, you poor fools,

Sorry so sloppy!,

Glummy McGlib.

LYLAS!