Absurd Interview With Self

Because I'm not famous enough to be interviewed, I will conduct a brief interview with myself. In the following interview, "Self" will have the voice of Julie Andrew and "Inner Monologue" will have the voice of a slightly nervous, bumbling British reporter, okay? So imagine it that way when you read this entry. Got it? Alright, action.

Inner Monologue: Self, I want to thank you for taking the time out of what, I can only assume is a very busy day, to meet with me.

Self: Sure.

IM: Now, lets get right to it. You have been acclaimed and celebrated as the best blogger in the stratosphere. How do you handle the prestige?

Self: Well, I just try to live life from day to day, you know? When I initially got into "the game", I never imagined the response that my writings would draw. And, also, none of what you said contains any inkling of truth.

IM: Self, did you always know you wanted to be a blogger?

Self: Well, Inner Monologue, the internet was not around when I was born (I actually came up with vision and prints for the information super highway until DARPA slipped something into my formula and stole the plans, but thats a story for another day.) Anyways, even before the internet I knew I wanted to be a writer since I began work on my first novel (age: 18 months). That novel was actually the screenplay for LOST.

IM: Self, America wants to know, how do you stay so trim? You must work out all the time?

Self: Oh, booger. I've never stepped into a gym or counted calories. I just eat fish and rice and jamba juice and do yoga. Obviously.

IM: Fascinating! Self, what is your goal, your vision for your writings?

Self: I see my writings as a bursting chestnut. Though it may be crackling over the fire, the insides are only smoldering. Lets not smother the chestnuts roasting on a open fire, America, or else it will burst into flames. You, middle class, are the palm branch fanning the flames. And you, capitalism, are the crazy creek chairs. Lest we forget that iambic pentameter.

IM: Err, right. Well, thank you, Self, for that beautiful soliloquy.

I'm weird.