|photo credit: Steve took it via photopin cc|
There are several memes, link ups, I've seen that are known as Stream of Consciousness posts. Bloggers write up and link their posts detailing the clear, cool, running waters of thoughts that flow through their psyche. Like a sweet tumbling spring breaking through its winter frost.
Not me--I have no ebb and stream of fluid thought. My mind is more like karate chops at things that invade my senses. Too hot! Ooooh, too cold. Ouch, hard chair. Hmmm, this sweater is itchy--wonder if it's wool.
That's what my *stream* of consciousness would read like. Obviously, this kept me far and away from joining in on any SOC's of the week.
But hey-wait.a.minute? What if I'm not the only one whose inner monologue is a staccato replica of Tony Blair's speech: halting, sputtering, spilling, pulling back in again?
SOC versus LIM, aka loose inner monologue: thoughts that are chopped up in bits, nothing joined, nothing flowing about it.
I'm making a place for my type of mental ramblings, Loose Inner Monologues, right here, on Friday nights: like a colonic for the brain. Move out the old log of thoughts before my brain gets dammed up like beavers' work.
My first LIM on this blog: (because other than drilling a hole in your skull, how you gonna declutter?)
I hope it's nice out tomorrow.
I don't know why I think if it's nice tomorrow I'll do some work outside--I should know by now I'll just do everything but work tomorrow. But the bathrooms need to be cleaned so bad. I think I'll have to do those. I'm embarrassing myself with the dirt. Poor husband, the mirror looks like it's polka dots.
I can't believe I forgot to get apple juice at the store again. It's the reason I went. I spent 107 dollars and had one thing on my list and came home with 12 cans of Pringles instead.
Man my feet are tired. And my neck. I wish I could go for a massage.
No, I don't. I don't know why I said that. Massages freak me out--no matter who it is, it always feels like I'm going to wake up black and blue. People need to learn light touch massage. But it has to feel like a massage still--not like they're standing behind you in line, tapping you with their fingers.
Whoa, talk about tapping someone in line. What the heck? Did I jump ten feet in the air or what when that clerk tapped me to change lines at the grocery store today.
That jumpiness right there is why I can't do yoga, they make you close your eyes, get relaxed, you're almost asleep--them BOOM the instructor's voice is suddenly hot in your ear telling you to bring your spine down. Talk about teaching you to keep your guard up. Sheesh.
I have to go to bed. I'm going to go to bed. Take my friend the jelly donuts I bought 18 of today to her in the morning. I think I bought so many because I was acting out over Hostess being gone. I'm so sad about that.
I love Twinkies. I used to think they were little loaves of bread and would slice them up to make doll sandwiches. Everyone has a Hostess story--with Suzy-Q's, or Ding Dongs, or Zingers, or powdered donettes. We all have our Hostess story. Now we'll have to buy Little Debbie, the poor man's Hostess.
Have a mind that's more choppy than streamy? I invite you to write up your own Loose Inner Monologue post. Leave your link here. Admit it--just the mention of a brain dump and your thoughts are all jamming the aisle, like the last chopper out of Vietnam.
"One at a time, thoughts, one at a time ..."