I follow people who follow me and like my posts ect. All the blogs I follow inform me. We are exchanging experiences. And I find it all quite mysterious, this exchange, this Cyber Song of the Self.
Honestly, I’m going to come clean here. I was a star of the soap opera until one day I was possessed by the ghost of expired snack cakes. Those delicious treats that lie forgotten in some old 7-11 or buried landfill. They cry out to me and I hear their call.
“Devour us!” they chant.
I stand in convenience stores for hours weeping, “I cannot devour you all!”
So each day I pick out one; a Hostess Chocolate Pie or some Ding-Dongs. I commune on them and they tell me their story. Admittedly the stories don’t often make sense but I love them for their flavor and sacred mystery. I cannot live without them for they set me free of the bondage of existence.
I jot down the stories throughout the day on wet cocktail napkins and in the margins of hymnals. I worry that I don’t get them right or that I’m a terrible writer. but what the hell… The stories don’t belong to me. I am but a messenger who speaks of the life and love of various snack cakes.
P.S. A word to the wise - stay away from donuts. Not only are they tedious and have no story to tell, but they’re also only interested in solving crimes.
