Lately, I've been feeling as if blogging, in and of itself, has become a detriment. I seem more occupied about the subject of the next blog than the subject of my next story. The reason I began this blog was simply to have an outlet, a bulletin board in the void of the world. It's purpose was to have an external "inbox" to store ideas and force me to work them out into cohesive tales. I never intended for anyone to actually read it, and thankfully that much has held true. However, blogging is fun, even if (perhaps especially if) no one ever reads this crap.

In an effort to kick myself in the pants, I been poring over virtually everything I've written since 1995. This is the first time I've ever undertaken this task, and it proved far more laborious, embarrassing and contemplative than I ever imagined. Frankly, I don't know what the hell was wrong with me. I had it all; a nice house, a semi-cohesive family, a car, a hot girlfriend (who, I might add, is now my hot wife), tons of great drinking buddies, and few great friends. Why the hell was I so depressed all the time!? Seriously, some of the stuff I came across sounded like Edgar Allen Poe's death hymn as read by Emily Dickinson. I must admit, however, while I was rather obsessed with science fiction, some of that stuff was pretty original. I'm not sure I could even duplicate that kind of originality now. Turns out drugs do make you more creative!

But then it occurred to me; the reason I began writing was because I was depressed, and writing made me feel better. Obviously, most of the stuff I put on paper would be dismal because, at that time, I only wrote that shitty, shitty poetry when I was feeling dismal.

I would simply like to take this opportunity to thank my parents (thought they'll never read this...) for doing well by me. You were both incredible, if slightly overly concerned, caregivers and I thank you for all that you sacrificed to ensure that myself and my brothers always had everything we needed, and most of the stuff we really wanted.

I love you both, and really miss you right now.

That being said, I wanted to share something I found. I had (and still have) a huge problem of finishing stories. Sometimes there is a neat phrase, or collection of words, or a feeling I just have to convey, bouncing around in my head and I have to put it on paper just to exorcise the demon. The result is a Herculean pile of paper (scraps, sheets, wads and otherwise) with which to contend. They never get fleshed out into stories, not just because I always get sidetracked by another, equally catchy phrase or idea, but because I'm a lazy piece of shit.

If anyone would like to help me with this massive problem of tree-killing clutter (this is directed to all my terrifically wealthy family members that don't read this blog, or even exist), you can get me the one thing I asked for, but didn't get for Christmas. I want it so bad I wanna throw up. The Dana.

This bit is juvenile, but I like the feeling because it's common and identifiable. To all the folks that don't read this blog, I thank you for your non-patronage. Your lack of support is what's really gotten me through these last few months.