Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

Marissa's Attempt at Cleaning Her Room, Part 1:
It was the last door on the hall. Tentacles wiggled and writhed their way through the bottom, latching onto any unfortunate soul who happened to walk too close and dragging them deep into the depths of the room. A sign hung from the knob. "Abandon all hope, yee who enter here."
I bit my lip, thrust my machete forward, straightened the brim of my safari hat, and entered.
Immediately, my nostrils were assaulted by the stench of decaying flesh. The pile of bones to the left of the door was probably the cause of it, I thought.
Also, that explained where my brother's annoying friend Tyler went to...
I ventured further, hacking away at the vines hanging from the ceiling.
A pair of yellow, unblinking eyes stared out at me from underneath the piles of clothes of questionable cleanliness. Corpses of discarded empty soda cans lay crumpled and misshapen in the corner. One poor almost-empty can crawled close to me.
"Save yourself," the beverage said weakly, before coughing out its last few drops of Diet Coke and collapsing to the floor to join its fallen bretheren in Soft Drink Heaven.
I turned away, supressing tears.
"I'll avenge you." I whispered, trying not to choke up.
I straightened my hat yet again (it always seemed to be getting lopsided.) and headed onward into the heart of the bedroom...

Sigh.

It seems to me like I should be updating Le Blog more often.
Really can't think of anything to say, though.
Nothing witty, anyway.
I mean, it's possible I could just post this entry with me just saying I've nothing to write about.
But that would be quite dull.
And I'm sure my followers (OMG WTF BBQ, I HAVE FOLLOWERS!) would be quite unhappy if I did.
Because I am sure they expect something a bit more entertaining than me just blathering on about my lack of inspiration to be quirky and strangely amusing.
Hmm.
Write about my life, you say, mysterious voice from nowhere?
No-no, that won't do.
I am not particularly interesting.
Except for the odd occasion when I hear mysterious voices suggesting topics to write about. Also, my fingers can talk. And they are not fond of me. I really can't blame them.
What's that, Mr. Voice?
Stop blathering and post the dang entry, you say?
Well.
I can do that.
And I shall.
Adieu, my unhappy followers.

The Creative Process.

For those of you curious as to how I come up with my posts, I present to you...

The Creative Process:
Every so often, I'll open up a new draft on Blogger and try to think of something to write.
I'll stare at the blank page for, oh, about a half hour or so, until, brows furrowed and eyes blinded, I'll squint angrily down at my fingers on the keyboard.
"Write something," I tell them.
"Be quirky and entertaining," I say, close to begging.
My pleading is to no avail, of course.
They continue to sit motionless, mounted atop the spacebar, as if mocking me.
The buttockses.
Of course, by this point, I get frustrated.
Frustrated meaning I get the kitchen knife and threaten the lazy fingers with a game of Five Finger Fillet.
"She's bluffing!" the middle finger cries out to his fellow digits, trying to reassure them.
Oh, but I wasn't bluffing, and 2 fingers later, I managed to come up with this lovely entry.
Please enjoy as I head off the the emergency room, as the bloodloss is making me somewhat woozy.
Adieu.