Smallhouse Log

Internetsless VII

It seems that I can't, or at least won't, write a thousand words every day. I will, though, write approximately eight hundred words every three days, all at a go. This seems to be because I am critically depressed every three days. I'm not sure what I do with myself the rest of the time. I suppose it must be pretty awesome, if it keeps me in good spirits for two and a half days at a time. That probably means it has to do with dinosaurs.

Now, we are familiar with the statistic to the effect that it is normal for men to think of sex for one second out of eight. This I can accept comfortably. However, I've noticed lately that I also seem to spend one second out of eight thinking about dinosaurs. That scares me.

And then I end up spending half an hour thinking about how much I think about dinosaurs.

Three more words.

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