mummy, i'm scared

i suppose the only reason i'm writing this, well there are two really, one is because i'm a bit hung over and am too tired/dehydrated/hungry (yes this is a multiple choice) to go out foraging for food or slumping in the cathedral of cinema down the street. besides i have a dvd here which is enough to sway my rather weak will and keep me well ensconced on the chesterfield.

the other reason; because my friend has one.

writing like this brings up all kinds of questions, musings, ideas.

(there'a funny translucent greenish bug sauntering across my key board - how auspicious!)

questions:
does one have to spell correctly - or can I follow the path of my favourite writer whom I've never read - Mr. Jack himself - and indulge in spontaneous bop prose, just for the hell of it?
who would take any time to read this?
is this a path, a slippery slope toward further self-agrandizement, something my vocation pushes me violently toward as it is.
will i get dates? (proabably a recurring theme that will be noticed if either of us stick with this)
are you the least bit entertained?

I am.

off for now,
me