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Not writing tonight

I don’t feel like writing tonight, so I’m not going to say anything. Nothing from me. So don’t come expecting me to say something, because I won’t. Not a word. Minus these words. But these words don’t really count as they could be classified as empty rhetoric. Ah, empty rhetoric, filling our world with fluff and smalltalk. Don’t get me wrong, the world needs both fluff and smalltalk. If not for fluff, what would our pillows be made of? And if not for smalltalk, no one would have any friends. Right now you’re probably thinking that I’ve gone back on my word and written something. But come on, both you and I know that I haven’t really said anything. As proof of this, I’m not even bothering to proofread what I’m writing. This is garbage. Why are you reading it? Shame on you. In fact, you really aught to reconsider your life. What are you doing reading some blog when you should be training for the Marathon? That’s right. You. Marathon. I know what you’re thinking: I’m too old and fat. Those are valid concerns, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, and since you’re not going to will it, I’m doing it for you. So when you’re hyperventilating on your first mile tomorrow morning and thinking, “I’m ready to give up,” just know that you can’t, because I haven’t willed it. Which brings me to my point. It appears from the content of this empty rhetoric that we have a master-slave relationship going on. After all, you’re mindlessly reading this dribble, which says a lot about my power over you. For further proof, I want you to go punch someone, preferably an old lady. If there’s no old ladies in the room, your significant other will do. Do not read the next sentence until you’ve completed your task. What are you doing reading this? Do you actually want me to believe you’ve completed your task? Just know that if you haven’t, you will turn into a pillar of salt. Knowing you wouldn’t dare read on now without having fulfilled my bidding, I congratulate you on a task well done. My prize is five dollars, which you are hereby ordered to send through Paypal to info@gashlermedia.com. Yes, I said MY prize. This is the feudal order, after all. Now run along, peasant. Go eat a turnip or something. I’m going to bed.

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