It's been long enough since my last post that someone named Anonymous - who the hell gives their kid a name like that? - demanded more from me. Actually, they demanded two different things from me. Let's take a gander at their comment (to take a gander at, v. to apply a male goose to an object or situation as a means of focusing attention (colloq). Still illegal in the southern US and Dubai):
okay, where's your next post. I want more.
It looks simple, but if you bring your gander in a bit closer (so that the beak is pointing right at the words) you'll see that Anonymous doesn't necessarily want the next post, he or she is just... curious. Just wants to know where the post has gotten to. Say, Palinode, where's the post at these days? Anonymous could best be described as post-curious. Which is illegal in Florida.
So far I've got a casual inquiry about a specific but hypothetical object, the post. Then Anonymous says flat-out:
I want more.
You want more... post? That doesn't really scan. I don't know what you want more of, Anonymous. I don't know why your parents gave you that name and I don't know what you want from me. More what? More heads of cabbage? Because I've got 'em. More estuary property watershed rights? Valuable stuff. More sitcoms revolving around a dysfunctional family with an impotent patriarch, a long-suffering mother who functions as the conscience of the family, a sexpot daughter and an effeminate/sensitive/intellectual but not actually gay son? And the gay thing is a running gag? That's a hoot. But I can't give you more of that kind of thing. I can only give you more bootleg CDs.
I realize that I'm being a little disingenuous here. I can also give you more cheese, more Veruca Salt fanfic, more clutter, more angels in the LDS firmament, more of what you know you want but are just too damned shy to ask for. I'm here for you, Anonymous. You just have to let me know what you want.
In other news, I've joined Nanowrimo this month and am trying like ol' crippled Yahweh to keep up the 1667-words-per-day count. Most of the novel makes as much sense as this entry. In fact, I'm going to count this entry as part of my Nanowrimo bid. It'll be an inexplicable daydream experienced by a secondary character selling oranges from a cart on a boulevard.
In other news: Ol' Crippled Yahweh.