I have nothing new or exciting to tell you. You'd best stop reading now,because whatever comes after will not stimulate you.



No really, stop it.

You see, if you keep reading this, I'll feel obligated to put forth something creative, insightful, entertaining. And thats too much pressure; I can'thandle that kind of responsiblity. I mean, my God, where do I get off thinking that what I write is worth your attention? Who am I to consider mywords an important source of . . . something.? After all, what if you get nothing out of this? What if you come to my blog, expecting to be enlightened, informed, and all you find is complete drivel? What if mywriting becomes a complete waste of your time? I can't have that on my conscience! So stop reading this instant.




Seriously.




Cut it out! This isn't funny!




Enough already!




Hey, you know what . . . just who do you think you are? Expecting me to perform like this. Expecting me to write something worthwhile and interesting. How dare you!? How dare you put this pressure on me! Where doYOU get off? Huh? With all these expectations and lofty goals. Don't hold meto your unreasonable standards.



I don't have to put up with this.



This is harassment.




Stop it.





Stop it!




Ok, I'm done.





No really. I'm stopping now.





I'm stopping.





Now.





Now, for real.





Goodbye!




. . .




. . .




You know what? I think I'm gonna keep writing. Just to spite you! Yeah!Thats right! I'm gonna write and write it's all gonna be CRAP! And you willjust have to sit there and keep scrolling until you waste who knows how much time trying to find some kind of value in this. Talk about an existential quagmire! I told you to stop reading. I tried to stop you. But it's out of my hands now. You can just deal with it. I've got miles of weblog philibuster ready to suck you in and never let go.



Damn straight.




You can't stop now can you?




You're hooked.






What, you think you can outlast me? Well, I've got all the time in theworld.




Soooooooo much time.





Lots 'n lots of time.




Yup.

Time.




. . .




Actually, I've got this thing in a few minutes so I'm gonna have to cut out. It's been fun though. I know you wanted me to keep writing and all but I'vegot a life of my own. I mean, I kept going just to keep you happy but this really isn't healthy. You can't look to me for all of your online needs. I think you might be becoming obsessed. I'm worried about you.

I want to be a writer. BUT, I have absolutely no confidence in my ability to write. And so I don't write. It is merely a dream, a fantasy. My life feels like a complete waste of time. One of these mornings I will wake up and realize that I’ve suddenly become 40 years old and nothing I’ve filled my time with really mattered. Ok, I do write a little. And I write most smoothly, most fluidly, when I’m writing depressing, cynical, rambles like this. In other words, I write best when I’m writing something no one would care to read.

Have I perhaps lost the belief that the written word can change people, effect people? Well, what changes and effects me? Life experience. That was easy. Well then, should my writing be born out of life experience? Sure. But, what must I do to more fully live life so that I can write? . . . Hmmmm. Good question. Whatever it is, I’m worried that I won’t be able to do it. My life simply feels like I’m . . . oh geez, nevermind. I’ve been over and over this. It gets old.

I I remember I had a big imagination when I was younger. Where did that go? Perhaps I just have to exercise it more. Do people who have to rely on writing exercises and workshops really ever become productive and consistent writers? Bestsellers? Literary elite? Or is that the path of the wannabes? Maybe you have it or you don't.

Maybe I don’t have to write, per se. Maybe I just need to create, to accomplish. When I was working at Kinko’s I didn’t have the desperate, blasé feeling that I have right now. That could be because my job consisted of routinely accomplishing new and different tasks in a variety of ways. Every day, I had at least four or more finished products completed, and as many more moved to new stages of completion. Every day had a new batch of jobs (although there were always those that took several days). I filled my off-work time with enjoyable pursuits: fantasy baseball, computer games, movies, music, books. Aside from the fact that I had very little non-work social contact (which did leave me very lonely, I will admit), I was happy.

But now, inside of work and out of it, I feel like I am accomplishing nothing. This may be the root of the problem. All of my days seem horribly short, although that may be due to the unfamiliar sleep schedule. But, even adding things like bowling and slamming back into my life doesn’t seem to be enough to fill the void, the aimlessness. Perhaps, writing really is the answer. It would seem to be the easiest solution. There must be a few stories to tell inside me, somewhere.

My God . . .

I forgot how much working SUCKS!!!



. . . aaaaand it's Nap Time.