A Run-On Sentence Supporting Laziness

I don’t want to write on my blog today.  I don’t!  I was drinking all night, I have a hang over, and I have no idea what to write about.  No.  No!  Stop it!  You can’t make me!  It’s my blog and I’ll do what I want with it.  I have used up all of my backlog of past works that were worth a damn, and the rest are either shitty or I wrote with someone else.  I know I said I wanted to post every single day for at least a year, and that all of my posts would be original material, but god damn, have you ever tried making posts every single day?  Get that diary out of my face.  Your diary is boring.  What?  Of course your diary is boring.  If it was interesting you would have sold it by now.  Although, when I come to think about it, most books that are published aren’t very interesting at all and they can make buttloads of money.  Just look at The Secret or Twilight; those books are utter crap and people are flocking to buy not only three copies for themselves, but also three copies for every member of their immediate family and anyone who happens to be standing next to them at the time.  On second thought, you should sell you diary; but even if it gets bought doesn’t make it good.  Look, I’m not saying everything I write is fucking gold (more like silver) but I really try hard to make it entertaining for the some odd twenty-three readers I have, which means I have to sit down and exert something that I think is called “Effort” (at least I think that’s how you spell it) to write a work that is engaging, educational, silly, or if I can help it, all three, and that takes time.  I don’t have a lot of time!  I have a lot of debt, but very little time, and whenever I sit down to write I might as well step into a time machine because by the time I’m finished writing a post, three hours have passed.  This leaves very little time to work-out, or cook dinner, or fuck around on the internet (which is probably what I was going to do).  Would you stop looking at me like that?!  I’ve been working on three or four pieces for a long time, but they ended up being a lot larger than I had originally envisioned, and so it’s going to take a little bit longer to finish them.  So I’m trying, see?  Stop badgering me, you bastard!  Fine!  FINE!  I’LL WRITE SOMETHING!

Johnny threw the red ball across the street, and his English Terrier Skippy was killed when he chased after it and was run over by an empty bus returning back to the station for a tire replacement.

THERE, ARE YOU HAPPY?  DID YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT, YOU PESTERING, SELFISH, UNRELENTING MONSTER?!  Now Skippy is dead, Johnny is traumatized, and the bus driver (whose name is Earl Windonson) is going to be fired and lose his house, all because you just NEEDED to have me post today.  Good job.

"Here lies Skippy, and it's all your fault."

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