Diary of a Low Budget Superhero

I may have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. Facebook, man. Facebook, maaaan! OH but allow me to explain. It's been a couple of years on the Facebook thing, and my brain is now fully rewired, creatively speaking.

Follow up:

Before Facebook, I would go about my day and, without effort, my brain would be taking a seed of a thought and cultivating it all day for the next diary entry. In fact, I've heard so many times, "You're composing in your head, aren't you. Am I in it?" or "I can't wait to see how THIS gets spun in your diary."

But NOW, I'm all over the place! I still have seeds, but Facebook allows me to post, unformed, the same moment. There's no cultivating. Just the seed. And it's not only me. I could be here at home watching a movie with Joe when he'll get up, go to his Mac and tap out "We're watching Mulholland Drive." I can't even poke fun at him for whatever drove him to inform our network of friends, because I could just as easily have done it. Before, I may have finished the movie and then slammed out a diary entry about David Lynch. Now I am more likely to just tap out on Facebook, "David Lynch is fucking with us." And that's the end of that. No narrative, no embellishment, no examples. Just the seed.

A side effect of this micro-diary phenomenon is that my thinking, my daily internal dialogue-with-myself, has also shrunk down to the size of a Tweet. Alternatively, to the size of a "Group" I could start. Not that I would. But I could. I've written some down and in doing so, find that I, my friends, have become a total space case. I will add more later, because I don't see this mental gymnastic stopping any time soon.

I'm 40 but I still go to my room to find that I've left my jeans on the floor scrunched down to two little holes, just like when I first learned to undress myself.

When I stumble in front of strangers I always make a big show of inspecting the ground for the Nothing that tripped me up.

I have spent actual brain power wondering how the Dursleys got off that island, seeing as how Harry and Hagrid returned to shore in the only boat. Also, if Hogwarts starts at age 11, where do wizard kids go to school until then?

I would love to see a soccer team run out onto the field wearing uniform shirts that look like those old tuxedo T-shirts, complete with boutonniere.

The Europeans gave us the chamois, a fabric made of soft, non-porous lambskin split and tanned in a special way. First we couldn't spell it so we turned it into the "shammy." Eventually we lost all self-respect and made the Sham-Wow guy a household name.

I really am going to start spelling my name with a silent 5. I'll be Mic5helle from now on.

I still get a surge of excitement whenever I see a sign for a yard sale, even though I have too much shit already and need to stop bringing more shit home.

Just when I think my boss has finally gone all the way around the bend, he finds a new bend and goes around that one, too.