You know, when I started this thing I thought I'd post regularly at a regular interval, like every night at nine o'clock I'd sit down and write for an hour, pretend I was writing a letter to someone who was eager to hear from me, someone who could look past all the weird shit I say and find the deep, inner me inside.

So much for that.

It's okay, really. I don't mind. I just wish that the blank page and that blinking cursor wasn't to fucking daunting. I wish that it's magical properties did not always seem so frightening and that I could once again feel confident knowing that what I was about to do with that blinking cursor was something that could be considered amazing or at the very least interesting enough for someone else to be eager to read more.

So, that is/was my real, ultimate purpose to this blog--to write a small amount every day to remember how to make the words come, how to make my story keep going.

I have two stories I'm working on--Ha that's a lie. I have one story I constantly batter myself for not finishing yet, one that is constantly giving me some sort of emotional problem. I used to think maybe it was a book, it seems pretty long so far, but I don't know if I'm even capapble of finishing it, much less actually writing a fucking book like a real-life book. A novel. Something you might find on a bookshelf or a bargain rack. Fuck, anywhere. I want to see my name on a book somewhere. I mean, I'd like to see people reading it, I would allow an Oprah Book Club sticker (even though I think her club is fucking stupid, I mean, how does Oprah tag Middlesex as a great book and suddenly people think it's amazing, but when it won a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, nobody gave a shit? Good lord the nation is fucked up when Oprah means more than a Pulitzer).

However, the other story I'm working on is also good but dead for now. I know what I want to do with it but I don't know how. Or I know how but I fear fucking it up. Good Christ. I'm a mess. And somehow I seem to have lost the muse for the moment. Shit.

So now I've realized that this whole blog thing is totally overpopulated anyway and no one is going to care very much if I ever stop writing or reading or whatever. I'm not famouse or a star of the screen. I don't write novels and I don't pretend to have superpowers on a tv show. I've never been anywhere too intereseting and for all intents and puposes I'm just like any other sap that exists today. I've got nothing to bring to the table, nothing to show for my life so far and really nothing to hold on to other than my family and the few friends who can tolerate me for longer than three hours at a time.

Whew. That was a pity party and a half, wasn't it? Wah, oh woe is Wesker. Cry me a river. See this, this is the smallest violin in the world playing 'my heart pumps purple piss for you' over and over again until I stop complaining about my fully functioning body, my healthy family and my job and vehicle and intelligence.

So this blog just got so emo my heart stopped and I had to be revived.

Anyway, how all are well, whoever is reading this bugger, thank you, and those who think this is all I do, you're wrong, just give me a chance to prove it.