Why not?

Since I've outed myself as a complete and udder fool I guess I'll just keep on typing. This isn't going to be a blog though. It's going to be something new and different. Something fresh. And clean. Make that dirty. Nah not that either. It's going to be a bunch of short contradictory sentences. This blog wallpaper is very much like the den that I'm writing this in. I wish I could hook my old Olivetti Lettera 35 up to this computer. I wrote the best love letters to the loosest women on that thing. Now all I write are half written novels. Ones that begin with down and out old guys that can't write. Maybe my problem is that I'm being a little too autobiographical, but I want to be sincere. Maybe I shouldn't start with the ending. Maybe I should hook readers with the promising future that I once had in the past. But it will have to wait. The toast has popped and the water is bolling. 

Everything is nothing

I'm not old enough to be experiencing a mid-wife crisis. I haven't done anything to be tired of everything. I must be depressed. I had found a few things that made it easier for me to ignore reality and my failings. Then it started slowly. Things that normally kept me enthralled for hours began to make me angry, and then they didn't elicit a response at all. So now I'm left looking for something else. Not something to distract me, but someplace to belong. I can't concentrate right now. I've got one pressing matter that pounds my self esteem into dust. I might be able to move on if I had a job. I'm really bad at finding jobs. Put me in the most boring position and I won't say a word, give me all the things you hate to do and I'll do them quietly. But don't ask me to chat, don't expect me at your staff Christmas luncheon. Let me do my job and stop complaining to me about how busy you are and how irreplaceable you are.  But somehow, you get promoted for your hackneyed motivational ideas and your buddy buddy demeanor. I've written too much. You'll assume I'm some angry bumbling fool. You're probably right.