Gone Too Long

I have, I fear, been horribly remiss about posting of late. I was on such a roll, blathering aimlessly about anything that caught my fancy for more than a few fleeting moments. Then I went to Chicago which, you would think, might lead me on to ever greater flights of literary fancy.

Alas, no. Chicago made me wonder how I had utterly pissed away 30 years with nothing to show for it but a tiny house, an incontinent dog, and a nascent drinking problem. I did get a really good photo of me and the boy out of it. He’s so damn cute when he looks all tough guy. He was even cuter later when we were both completely geeking out about how damn cool The Sparrow was.



Seriously, though. I don’t know what has gotten into me. I’m less than inspired to write of late. Quite honestly, I think I’m so put out with so much stuff that I don’t even want to wade through the disgust to get to my computer to write about it.

You know things are well and truly fucked when you’re talking to a man with a toddler and a brand new, barely finished baby and he’s talking about humanity blowing itself up in 10 years. Personally, I have no great respect for this cat’s intellect or faith in the accuracy of his predictions for the future, but I do find it telling that at the point in one’s life when one should be veritably wallowing in hope and denial, enthusiastically lining all clouds in sparkly, shining silver, he looked into the innocent blue eyes of his newborn son and figured the poor little tosser would only make it to about 10.

And people think I’m a pessimist.