So, Garfield may not like Mondays, but I don’t like Februaries. They are cold and dark and home to too many bad memories going all the way back to junior high school (don’t ask). I wish I could just hibernate through the entire winter, but so far the technology has failed to appear. (Sleeping pod is number three on the list of broken sci-fi promises from the fifties, after jet pack and flying car.) Except for the rodent-themed holiday near the beginning, the month is always a total wash for me. I’m glad it’s over.
This year was especially difficult due to the fact that I haven’t worked for a few months, and I am completely broke. And by broke, I mean rolling coins to buy food broke. Don’t worry, I’m not asking for sympathy or handouts (and least not from you good people). I have been broke before and probably will be again, for that is how I choose to live my life, free of any serious responsibility.
It’s after several months of looking for a new job that I have come to the conclusion that I’m not qualified to do anything I would want to do, and I don’t want to do the jobs for which I am qualified. Actually, that is not entirely true; I don’t want to work at all. It’s not that I’m lazy (even though sometimes I am), it’s just I have some much I want to do, but so little time. You know the feeling, I’m sure. Unfortunately, there are those pesky things called bills.
I guess the point is I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Some might call that immature, but I tried to work hard and play the part of a good citizen, pay my taxes, and have grown-up, serious relationships; and I wound up being disappointed, broke and alone every time.
I apologize for not posting more for the past few weeks, but the well of inspiration is kind of empty, or possibly frozen over. Thanks for letting me be my version of serious for a minute. I promise I will return with more fart jokes and cupcakes, or I will just shut up until I’m done feeling sorry for myself.
Also, I should do my taxes. I’m sure they owe me a refund this year. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed.
Crazed recluse and sociophobe who has taken up writing after failing at everything else. Send pizza.
Verbatim Gibberish 