I’m beginning to think that my fuse has burned out, and I’m afraid to look over my shoulder to see how long ago it’s been since I’ve written a decent story or poem. Fuck, actually, I don’t even want to remember the last time I wrote a decent poem. It’s been ages, actually. Every time I summon the courage to write something on paper, it begins and ends in disaster. What I need is another outlet for my frustration. I’ve tried music and the only thing I’ve learned from that lesson is I’m completely and utterly tone-deaf. Which isn’t so much as a surprise because I’ve known it for years now. I mean, if the only thing you can sing in key is Marilyn Manson, you’re musically impaired. Don’t even get me when attempting to follow a beat – dance proved that was utterly hopeless in my case. Musically, I’m a lost cause. Next idea.

Sports. Pfft, even when I was thin I was horrible. Balls flying toward my face, men groping each other, piling on each other only begs that real men have homoerotic behavior that neither want to really talk about. And it’s not that homoerotic behavior is a bad thing – to each their own – it’s just not my thing. So, yeah. Move on.

I just don’t feel the creativity in me, anymore, but we all have to have some outlet. Or a new hobby. Employment would do me some good, as well. I haven’t been doing much of anything to bring money my way, side from applying for a sales representative position for an electrical company and even now I’m beginning to have doubts about that. While I’m willing to do almost anything at this moment for monetary reasons, I also like a job that leaves me physically drained to the point that all I want to do when I get home is sleep. I could deal drugs, but that’s not really up my alley – you know, stress wise. And prostitution is out of the question for obvious reasons – ain’t nobody wanna pay money for this tub o’ lard.*

I’m leaning toward an idea I had earlier this year and go crawling to my brother from some employment handout. Let’s face it, not a lot of people in the world are willing to clean up after people without being disgusted. Oh, I’m completely disgusted, but I’m also disgusted with humans in general. Besides, washing dishes and mopping up puke now and then is way better than sitting on my ass wondering when the next foot’s gonna fall. Also, I’m way better at doing that kind of work than attempting to sell myself, as it was put in the interview. I’m a good liar, but nothing is ever convincing when it comes to me pretending to like humanity.

It’s either that, or sprung on the program to get my teacher certification and fall victim of being trapped doing a job I hate – which is a vicious cycle considering I know that nothing will every bring me happiness in this world. Well, work wise, anyway.

Is there anything out there for someone who hates humanity? Telemarketing? Been there, done that. Assassin? Too moralistic. If only there was a job market for the misanthropic writer who can spill out 800 or less words in about an hour of contemplation. There isn’t, at least it’s not described as such. Either way, I hate the label writer. Because you have to write to be a writer – the definition never states you actually have to be published, so there we go.

What now, I ask. I really don’t know and I never expect to get answers because sooner or later I’m going to swallow my pride – if there is anything left to swallow – and do something I hate like the other suckers of the world. Because, damnit, the neo-American dream isn’t about being  happy. It’s about surviving.

I’m going to go and think, now. Maybe I’ll figure some shit out. Maybe I’ll do some more whining. Chances are, though, I’m just going to sit on my ass and catch up on Questionable Content. I’m so jealous of Jeph Jacques right now. And I don’t even know the guy.

*that, obviously, isn’t the reason