(Author’s note: Stymied, it was about this time the writer
began drinking heavily.)
What to write … what to write … what to write…
I am profoundly unmoved by zeitgeist.
Profoundly uneducated by experience.
Tomorrow is a day that will clash with yesterday.
And on Saturday I will die a mostly trivial death.
But that is a week from the other day.
Today I will live mostly undisturbed…
Except for the day to day things …
Which bother me so…
And I’ll tell you another goddamned thing…
It’s too hot. I hate the hot weather.
That’s another thing I miss about cable — the Weather
Channel. I use to plan my whole day around the
Weather Channel. They told me how to live my life and I
miss that. Being told that the day will be this and this
and that I should, therefore, plan on doing something or
other based on all the this and that they were so
conscientious to inform me about. They are so kind on
the Weather Channel. So thoughtful. So wonderful.
And I miss the Weather Channel. And I miss the days
when I would just sit there and listen to them tell me
about my future.
Tomorrow I am going to cook asparagus with …
something …
(Author’s note: Embarrassed, it is about this time that
the writer decided to be apologetic. After a great deal of
soul-searching, the writer began to realize several
things. Firstly: He did not look good in plaid. There was
simply no getting around that fact. Oh, plaid boxers
were fine and good. Whoever saw him in his boxers
anyway? Maybe his roommate every now and then, but
only for brief periods. But plaid shirts? No. Simply
couldn’t be done. And there would be no more kilt
wearing on casual days at the office. Of course, that
was more due to that office poll. Those rude bastards.
Secondly, the writer realized with some sadness that
his fingernails would need clipping soon. He’d grown
attached to those nails. And he felt they were equally
attached to him. Perhaps moreso, since he was larger
and had more mass. So that was making him feel a bit
down. Lastly, the writer realized that whatever the hell
he was doing with this research paper simply wasn’t
going to pan out. He’d thought himself an artist with
words; capable of doing anything involving writing. But
now, his wine-drenched brain had rightfully concluded
that he was an artist with words and that he was
capable primarily of working fast food. A new direction
was in order.)
Strategies, Tactics and Military Ethics
Of Alexander the Great
"My son, ask for thyself another kingdom, for that which
I leave is too small for thee."
–Philip II
Continued
