Blogging in the dull and hapless void

Something seems to be going on. People are, for reasons which remain unclear and somewhat suspicious, reading this blog.
Why, I'm tempted to ask? But then why should I? Whole gift horse in a mouth thing comes rushing back.
I'm read. And remember, better read than dead.
All right, I have to be honest.
I am dead.
I died of neglect. Now I'm merely suffering from hay fever.
Which I have to say is not as bad as when I was alive.
Always a silver lining.
And yes, I know. Cliches annoy the piss out of me, as well. Unless their mine. But only because I have studied irony extensively. I know how to use them in a way that makes it seem that I know how to use them. Something that cannot be taught. I also know how to iron quite well. Which is also ironic because although my name is Lee, I'm not Chinese and have never worked in a Chinese laundry. Not that I wouldn't be interested, in theory.

"Suffer from allergy, do you? Well, not anymore. Take our medication just once and we guarantee an end to the seasonal agony of allergen incompatibility. Forever!"
(Manufacturers advisory: Not applicable in states where euthanasia is illegal.
*Never take high potency poison without first consulting your doctor!)

Anyway, death and distractions aside, I had a lot to say at one time, but nobody had time to listen. I ended up having to talk to dogs and Japanese people. Pretty much exclusively.
Fair?
Hardly.

So let's recap:
I'm a dead writer who people now want to read, possibly because I'm dead and they suspect a postumous wave may be in the offing. Hey, better late then never.
Forget the fact that no one made much of an effort while I was alive. I could have used a little attention, a little help, maybe a bit of cash from book sales. But it doesn't matter. In all honesty, I didn't make much of an effort while I was alive, either. I've just never been sure that anything which seems to be happening actually is. I privately blame this on the alien encounter I had in 1971. It changed my life, in ways that were both unfathomable and ironic. Ask Diane Becker, who lives in Italy, if you don't believe me. She was there. Okay, she's not talking to me, for things which, as far as I know, never happened, but she was there. I'm almost sure she was.
But that's neither here nor there. I don't dwell on the past, not constantly, anyway, let alone the failure of others in my past, however hypothetical they may turn out to have been.
The past is dead, as am I.
Happily so, I might add.
I've never been happier.
What is happiness?

Let's move on.

Okay, I'm lying.
I'm not dead and no one reads this blog.
I don't care.
Even I don't read it.
I mean, why would I?
Language is merely the medium we employ in order to avoid the difficult questions.
Like what the hell happened to all my socks?
Was that a question?
Should I make rice?
Do you love me?
You're driving me insane. Is that what you want?
Was that a question?
Am I?
You mean...?