Anyone can be egged on into anything when trapped with the lime of "I dare you!" Irresistibly more so if they’re stuck in the state of soporific inefficacy. For which obvious reason avoidance of things popped up in sleep would only assert that your lick of sense still sits where it belongs.

Hence my salutary rule: first thing in the morning – to dead forget all stuff broadcast to you in the grip of Morpheus' arms, so to say.

The model fits well both ladies and gentlemen – the night's over it's time to become an innocent blank slate...

Which policy might turn a misstep though, at times. Recall from your reproductive memory a certain Mendeleev, if you would. The old fart amassed right smart notability among screwballs slanted toward Chemistry by skipping to forget the periodic table that visited his night dream and—here you are!—at quite a few places you might now stumble on his monument either sitting or standing yet never lesser than his bust from which it’s hard to puzzle out the posture of the remaining parts of his anatomy.

Good news they still dare not amputate his beard – a quick check: full? chest-brushing? - and you're all set:

“G'Morning, Dmitry Ivanovych!. How's Your most precious?. Yeah, sure, they did promise a light rain by noon!.”

And monuments too, apropos, are pretty slippery ground to horse about: up to 7 years in prison. Oops. Article 214, the Penal Code of the Russian Federation. Not to mention the fine starting at half a million rubles. Some weighty pros and cons, eh?

Or how do you like the trick Don Juan got undone by the Monument of Commodore? Whose freshly baked widow had just got her share of consolation he served her in every humanly possible way, Don Juan did. To where it belongs. Before running into another example of ‘I-dare-you!’ catch.

“So what?” sez he, the Monument. “Chicken out to shake hands with me, Wet Pants?”

And the gull swallows the hook and all, full tilt, like a Juanito-kid from the slums of the Mexico City, the capital of the same-named state:

“Shut up, booger!” he sez. “Who’re you to freak me out? We'll check whose pants are wetter!”

And he slap-squeezed Commodore's glove. But it's of stone through and through! Plus palming a handful of P4! And that white phosphorus stuff is so nasty a shit they never collected a sliver of Don Juan after the handshake to poke out a DNA sample for checking his fatherhood in the slew of bastards spawn all over Europe whose Moms went out to litigate Juan for alimonies. Besides those eager to boost their rating in the upcoming elections to the respective municipal bodies of self-government...

To cram it all in a laconic nutshell, when Charles Dickens chose to appear in my dream, as his monumental embodiment, I was Correctness itself full of due respect, you know. Yet the spook kept bulldozing me most immodestly like you can find no writers any more and it's just computers sweating in their, writers', stead to process the copy-pasted text by reading it backward and then arranging paragraphs diagonally to keep your tweaks up.

And after there remains to specify the time and place your work-in-progress narrates of (a separate tweak to spice it with appropriate word collocations) and check the love-triangle was not compromised by scraps of Mimi, the bitch from the previous bestseller based on facts from canine life. Miles away from the toil he, this here Charles, plunged into in his time!.

And the like old geezer's hooey about 15 novels in 27 years of banging out a weekly bunch of pages, specific number thereof stipulated by contract.

And thus our discourse somehow tacked to betting that I too could turn out a novel by Charlie's method – a chapter per 5-day working week because on weekends I’m in entirely inoperative state thanks to the long-standing tradition, the two-day dead season, sort of.

The pending masterpiece was baptized The Blog, the shorter, the clear, to bump off any needless straining and https://proza.ru agreed upon as a sufficient scribbledrome.

However, the files uploaded there get filtered by their editor program to sift out, automatically, the words rooted in the language alive from the times immemorial.

Simple example – in place of 'dick' they stick in '****' which planetarium gives you a hard nut to crack if you're a normal guy and it was Friday yesterday, the weekend's inauguration. Seriously, I've checked it out – you run into a hang-up at that starry point.

Yet, I didn’t pick rubbing in to their system administrators about glossarial racism, compulsory castration of the mother-tongue means of expressiveness and orgiastic witch-hunt by catabolically impaired inquisitors under the disguise of struggle for Native Speech purification. Because there was no time to lose...

And so as to keep up the vividness of narrative I had to introduce some spelling innovations and add '*' (not asterisk but letter yobz now) to the native orthography.

Insert this here yobz in any of your preferred words and their censuring software's sight grows dim, thick smoke flows out its ears and, for instance, 'fu*ck' is welcomed as normative linguistic innocence, like any other necessary word of feather fixed properly.

Forgotten are the constellations of **** and other fuc*king malarky while the smart reader will see through non-obscuring yobzes.

Still and yet, I’ve betted on the wrong horse because The Blog took a week longer to finish off.

I dunno what to say Dickens on his next visitation.

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