1/20/06
Life seems pretty sad at the moment. I would like to consider myself a writer but at best I'm a typist. Most of my stories are half-written and slowly becoming half-forgotten. Condemning myself with inertia and a lack of motivation I am setting myself up for a destiny of being half-forgotten by people. Folks like H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe have acquired secular immortality through the persistence of their friends or the merit of their work. Right now I am certain that I have no friends and everything I've done is hardly worth noting by anyone.
Life seems pretty sad at the moment. I would like to consider myself a writer but at best I'm a typist. Most of my stories are half-written and slowly becoming half-forgotten. Condemning myself with inertia and a lack of motivation I am setting myself up for a destiny of being half-forgotten by people. Folks like H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe have acquired secular immortality through the persistence of their friends or the merit of their work. Right now I am certain that I have no friends and everything I've done is hardly worth noting by anyone.
Right now I can't write anymore for a couple of reasons. First and foremost I'm chiding myself with the now-passe speech by Tyler Durden that I was part of a generation who expected to grow up to be rock stars and movie gods and millionaires and there is nothing but empty promises. Plus I'm paraphrasing what Dave Sim said to his creation Cerebus, "Your life is the bread, you are the baker". I can't reconcile this because I don't see opportunities in life. My life isn't my own and my life isn't worth sharing with people.
spots and stripes forever
Only because of raddidge's continuing influence have I become distressed at my intrinsic pessimism. I sat in the warm belly of the basement with Spot snuggled against my leg and the edge of the laptop. Scratching her wee apple head made me sigh as I wondered about her. How I had missed out on her early days as a wee tiny kitten snuggled amongst her brothers and sisters, each of her black spots shot through with thin white hairs which would slowly disappear as she grew older and became a little rorschach test. I can only guess about her adventures like how she became fond of hemp. When Spot looked at me, I looked at her and wondered if she wanted to have kittens and see that the world's a brighter place for having tinier Spots and Stripes sharing the love gained from Spot. Maybe she's happy that she doesn't have to endure feline pon farr or suffer the pointy penis or wring her little paws in her lovely tea party apron over the destinies of her kittens.
you know
There is a reason why heptapod.org doesn't have comments. Of course should any of you, gentle reader, decide to share your thoughts my email address is in the right hand column. Thankfully, I think, I never hear from any of you. For if I did have an audience, I'd eventually get burned out with this nightly exercise.
