I Do Some Eccentric Dancing.

English Is An Outrageous Tangle Of Those Derivations And Other Multifarious Linguistic Influences, From Yiddish To Shoshone, Which Has Grown Up Around A Gnarly Core Of Chewy, Clangorous Yawps Derived From Ancestors Who Painted Themselves Blue To Frighten Their Enemies.

I Do Not Twitter. I Don't Want To Twitter, And I Don't See Any Point In Twittering. The Last Thing I Want To Do Is Tell People What I'm Doing At The Moment Because I'm Probably Not Doing What I'm Supposed To Be Doing.

The Local Groceries Are All Out Of Broccoli, Loccoli.

Twiddle-twiddle Away At My Softly Clicky Keyboard For A While, Making Twiddly Adjustments All Along- And Then Print What I Have Twiddled. Glare At The Printout And Snarl And Curse And Scribble Almost Illegibly All Over It With A Ballpoint Pen. Go Back To The Machine And Enter The Scribbles. Repeat This Procedure Until I Hate The Very Meaning Of Every Word I Know.

Twitter. It's Not A Good Sound, Is It? If It Were Worth Doing, There Would Be A Better Word For It.