paranoid self-awareness

I cannot go to school today.

Does Newrosis confuse you yet? Have you yet reached that point where you tune in to our program with certain expectations only to find something that contradicts the very reason you've adjusted your dial?

What?

What's that you say?

You say today is Saturday?

Okay, I'm going out to play.

Listen, Newrosis confuses me and I write here. I tell people to read the blog and they promptly ask me what it's about. Its the inevitable certainty. People in this day and age seem to have an inherent aversion to seeing things for themselves. They must be told what it is they're getting into. Thus, with gracious exasperation, I attempt to articulate our obscure purposes -- and if you've ever attempted to expound upon a complex variable via standard text message, you will feel this pain.

However, as my thumb bounces upon my phone, searching for that perfect summation of Newrosis, I realize that our purposes are decidedly more vexing. Authorially speaking, what we're doing here is actually quite novel.

Authors through time (yes! I'm am equating us to authors...through time) have been stymied by the question: What is your book/work/poem/pamphlet/treatise/etc about? While some have attempted to answer this question with a tidy summation, others have seen little purpose in such pandering, opting instead for the well wrought sentiment: If I could tell you what my book/work/poem/pamphlet/treatise/etc is about, I wouldn't have needed to write the book/work/poem/pamphlet/treatise/etc.

Well, that's how I feel about our endeavors here: If we could tell you what it was all about, we wouldn't have created said blog.

There is, of course, a flip-side to that coin: some, myself included, might argue that those who refuse to summarize their work might have no idea what it's all about in the first place.

Well, I'll cop to that too; to a certain degree, we don't know WTF is going on and we've created this blog to figure that out.

This post was supposed to be about Lincoln Logs by the way. Shit, man.

Regardless, here's a picture of Millard Fillmore to round things out:


WORD.