I feel an awful lot like that manhole cover. Hammered flat and smooth, almost indistinguishable from the cracked road all around me. Here it is the next to last day of February, and there has not even a single sign of spring.
Yesterday, in the silent maelstrom of of my raging, disordered mind, I managed to find 568 more words to tack onto "Chewing on Shadows." I did that, and I answered a lot of email, and I called it work. It's taken me three days to do a single day's worth of writing.
Last night I got bored enough to wander into Second Life and stay there for a couple of hours. Hard to believe its been almost seven years since I discovered SL. Jesus, what a fucking wasteland. A million virtual strip malls, where everyone walks around with their hands perpetually open. Morons who've chosen moron names for themselves. It could have been something wondrous, and it has nothing but itself to blame for becoming what it is. Second Life is, indeed, a perfect barometer of the idiocy of humanity.
Cold sunlight is about as useful to me as a dead whore.
Happy birthday, Mr. Steinbeck.