I've been busy. I never have time to do all the things I want to do, so I waste time doing things I don't want to do, and have a constant though mild case of despair right behind my eyes like a hangover. I'm wondering how I get so distracted. All I can come up with is, I have too much free time on my hands. When you're as poorly organized as me, that's a bad thing. I would be good in some totalitarian country, mindlessly following orders. Standing at a conveyor belt, adding one screw to each of the two million widgets that roll by, the same repetitive behavior for hours and hours, then give me a piece of bread and a beer and send me to The Combine. I have such simple goals.
I need to get back to writing. Now that I'm convinced I will never have more than five thousand thirty-two readers, I must concentrate on giving them something worthwhile, an entertainment to justify the effort. At one point I was going to write a memoir, but even the word gives me a headache, memoir, ouchie ouch, I can't do it. It's all I can do to shut out my past as it is. Forcing myself to write it down, dear God. Fiction is my calling, more believable lies.
