The Age of All Ages

This Earth has existed for over 4 billion years, a number that is utterly incomprehensible by even the most remarkable of human minds; therefore its own incomprehensibility is instrumental in giving way to my absolutely infallible sense of torpid drudgery that entirely eschews anything I deem more inscrutable than my own unfathomable garrulous spewing. And yet, despite this, I find myself at the mercy of my limitless impulsivity that survives despite the mind-numbing apathy lethargically seeping through an uncaring mind, in that I have gone through the ineffable effort to look up the approximation on this strange machine whose mechanisms might be more impenetrable than the above arrogantly large number. Why would I put forth such a concerted effort? Could it be that I am, as implausible as it may seem, changing? Aging? Maturing? The answer is no, of course not. I didn't really look it up. I just decided that the time was ripe for yet another meaningless post that will remain in your mind no longer than the infinitesimal time it would take for Google to spit out the estimated age of the rock we all coincidentally dwell on.

Realization

This morning I almost had an experience somewhat resembling some semblance of a realization. Of course, it was no true realization as that would require some kind of concerted effort on my part; needless to say, this occurrence happened, which would be cause enough for celebration were I the type of person to revel in celebration, though I am quite possibly the complete opposite of this hypothetically celebratory person. As it is, by now your attention is most certainly waning and your patience is being tried; perhaps you would wish for me to get to the point already, to hurry it along through this drivel and onto the entire reason that I began writing this post. But if you have followed me to here, then I might want to warn you about the content of the realization I almost had this morning, for it will simply reek of anti-climax, lacking utterly in insight and humor or any other basis for which a realization might formulate itself upon.

Ah, but you still resist! Following me to the second paragraph, willing to sit through another grandiose cluster of hooey just to sate your now all-consuming curiosity, for what better piques one's interest than adamant refusal to let loose the object of regard? But surely you must have the feel for this blog as it is, one that is buried neck-deep in fuming heaps of particularly verbose helpings of nothing; knowing this, how can you still push forward with this infatuation you have for some off-handed near-revelation I may have had this morning? After all, you have absolutely no evidence that I had this realization at all. I could be stringing you along, teasing you with hints and prospects of something that may or may not be of any worth for your inspection. Yet this is a gamble that you take, throwing yourself headlong into the intricate web of my trap, well-aware of this trap even as I warn you repeatedly to turn back; and thus, through my uncompromising advice for your better well-being, I manage to convince you to follow through the treacherous potholes of my callous reasoning to the core of my ridiculously ill-conceived and rather cruel trap, to the heart of the revelation I had this morning.

The revelation that I could, quite reasonably, do just this.

Incredible

Contrasting my view of humanity as obliging to my utter heedlessness to the world in general, I'm quickly finding that many people might actually genuinely care about the things they claim to lay interest to. For example, today I saw a mother smile at her son, even though the child was raising a sticky hand full of dirt to show the woman a writhing worm that he had dug up. As much as I tried to, I simply could not find a strain of falsity in its countenance; it simply seemed as though she was rather fond of the grubby child she poured her sweat and blood and financial resources into. Certainly, her smile became more strained when the child threw the muddy worm onto her lap, but even the compromised love was still present in her expression.

Perhaps I am over reading this. Maybe she was just a talented and under-celebrated actor, bluffing her way through a forced relationship shoved on her through societal expectations and her own guilt. Who am I to determine what is real and what is not? After all, who is to say that my own persona is nothing but an elaborate ruse? You, perhaps, but certainly not me.

To Begin...

To begin, let me disclaim this by prefacing my first post to this blog with: this is uninteresting. This is uninteresting, unfairly critical, and utterly indulgent. Were it not for the last non-stagnated bits of my brain that have managed to survive despite my encouragement of torpor, this blog would likely not exist at all. Every post on here will consist of nothing more than the musings of an adolescent with her head stuck much too far into the dirt of un-creativity to even conjecture to string together more than three words of any interest to you, average reader who requires rapidly vacillating and wholly engaging entertainment; in fact, due to that, I commend you for getting this far in the paragraph. Unfortunately, your perseverance will not pay off, as there is nothing further of note for this first paragraph- and in case it wasn't clear, I don't really care enough to congratulate.