That’s fine, not a problem, I’m not complaining, nor should you. The toughest thing about writing is coming up with content to write about. Writer’s block is often assumed to be some sort of made up syndrome: the ability to be in absentia, and justify it. That’s where I stand now. On my way to my fathers house, I was talking with Tim, my content administrator (title pending), and we were talking about content, trying to come up with essentially anything to write, talk, or really, provide any sort of content that any sentient marsupial would read for amusement. I present to you not only a stream of consciousness, but a plea for clemency; this was a task that is not easy to write. However, I’m good at writing, not with a hammer. So I sit here, typing away, looking over shyly at my empty class of rum, Tim agile with his wallet and Mac of which I envy, and sit dissolute: I yearn for so much, even this website is a challenge.
So with my absolve, my psychobabble, I realize that life is pretty meaningless and boring. Ever sing in the car alone? Ever yell at yourself in the shower? Ever chew the food you know you shouldn’t eat slower as some daunting realization that “Hey motherfucker, heart attacks aren’t just rumors?” That’s why I write, that’s why I write about pointless topics and laugh about them, dare I say, scoff? I like music, I hate food, I love reading, I hate Starbucks, what else is new, it’s the new lost generation! I world of the understanding of consumerism, the re-iteration that with a college education comes unemployment, and with hard work comes debt in a tax return.
