Why should I care? There’s so damn much that I’m doing that doesn’t matter beyond paying some bill by the end of the month. I don’t have motivation for much right now that doesn’t involve spreed sheets, payrolls, and sweat glands, or checking my credit rating. Why should I care if you notice I’m not around these parts much anymore? Why the hell should anyone really care or even want to hear excuses why I’m not my normal chipper self? Why I’m not buying nightly rounds at the local dive? Why I’m not gallivanting around Chicago, hitting on any girl in a sundress and that blank stare in her eyes? Do you really care? Are you that in need of my attention? Don't talk to me about the health care debate. Don’t you think that if I had something good to say, or type, or film, or text, that I’d say it, or type it, or film it, or text it? Don’t you think that you’d know about it? Wouldn’t this be the place for it? I’m fucking working here, people. I’m working and sweating and paying bills and fixing the broken shit around me, and I still have a mother fucking sink full of dishes to do. BLARG!
Sometimes I get mad at nothing. Sometimes it leaves a stain. Sometimes it helps. Mostly, I just wish my phone didn't make that horrible shrieking sound, like some soul is being ripped to shreds. I'd rather sound like butterflies and bacon.
I’ve realized something during these past few hectic weeks, and the thought flashes into my head periodically as I get needlessly and endlessly yelled at by a small, angry Thai woman. I could solve a lot of problems with an army of giant robots with guns. Giant Fucking Robots with Guns!
I need to get more sunshine. Lemme just write that on my to-do list, right after finishing the dishes. Cheers.