Hallelujah I Broke My Head - Part 2

Off the cuff, can I say how much I love google analytics?  I'm bad (real bad) at geography, but the way I see it, if it's not in Scotland, why should I care?  

So, anyway, google analytics just told me where Malaysia is.  And it told me where Petaling Jaya is.  I did a google image search and the city is lovely.  I don't know who visited my blog from there, but thank you.  Now I know something new.

I love knowing new things. 

My broken head, part 2 carries on from My Broken Head Part 1 (the post immediately beneath this one.)

I was all for adding my Tome of Infinite Greatness to the assembled crap of the slush pile, seen on the left here.  With a title like The Guns of Pleasure and Death and a kick-ass septigenarian and a rampaging evil God it was so incredibly awesome it would stand ten miles out from the crowd.  It would blow them all away.

I am nothing if not confident.  (It would only count as arrogance if I thought I was better than I am.  But despite the fact that I am number one on this list, ((I am, go, check, look right back to number one... okay you got me, I'm not, but I should be)) I'm actually modest).

But then I started to think things through.  And I realised I didn't want to do that.  And I blogged all about my recalcitrance elsewhere.  Because I know how much you love reading about me, it's here.

And then I decided to go indie.

And that's when things got interesting.  Or difficult.  Depends on your point of view, really.






I mean, the cat probably finds this interesting.  The mouse, I'd say he's more angled towards difficult.



Interesting or Difficult: problems with POV

Weirdly I discovered my head had been subliminally altered by years of consumerism.  I thought the way I had been taught to think.  I bought the things I had been told to buy.  I was a good little Mass Media consumer junkie.  I was a 21st Century Zombie (that would make an awesome title).

I thought the way I was taught to think.  I thought e-books were wrong, evil, dirty, not real books at all.  I thought books should have a minimum of 80,000 words.  I thought novellas were wrong, evil, dirty, not real books at all.  I thought success could be measured in sales and money.  I thought Neil Armstrong had landed on the moon (the flag moves in the wind, for goodness sake).


I, who consciously rebel against conformity for no reason other than the fact that I like rebellions; I, who am in mind if not in body of a punkest mindset (I be a punk, right-o, yo ma bitch); I, who - yeah, you get the point.  I'm always that guy, the one not doing what he's supposed to be doing.  The one, you know him.  


I have problems with authority.  If I was a girl, I'd get pregnant just so I could piss in a policeman's hat.  What?  Are you saying you wouldn't?


And now my head has betrayed me.  It's a conformist.  Damn it, my head is a sheep, and it isn't a cool ass sheep like this one. 

 I love that sheep.


No, it's a lame duck type of sheep.  I'm not posting a picture because my blog is already nearly overrun with wool and animals.  Y'all might start thinking I'm Jodi Meadows' secret identity or something.  Incidentally, if you have never read her blog, you should.  It's good.  Nearly as good as mine.  It is here.

My head betrayed me, and so I broke it.  And now I'm free.  Now I see what I couldn't see before.   

 Oh, this one has gotten long, too.


Well, I shall post the third and final part of My Broken Head soon.