Playing Golf on the Moon

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I'm trying to write this blog post.

I'm really trying. I'm just pissed off that I can't think of anything but Skeks playing on the elevator. It's hard to write a blog. It's very difficult letting the brain kick in and find something to grouse over. All I can think about are the little things in life, and it brings me back to the Queen of all Mommy Bloggers....Ms. Heather Armstrong.



I don't have a washing machine to complain about. Neither do I have children, or a husband... not that I want one of those, but a wife is another story. Nope. Don't have one of those either. All I've got is me and my lonesome...and movies. Lots and lots of movies, because of Netflix. I could complain about washing dishes, but I like that shit. I could complain about chopping up veggies, but I like that shit too. I can bitch and moan about being alone, but I have to admit, I like it. I like it a lot.



I can bitch about my mis- shapened body. I'm getting fat in strange places, such as under my arms, across my chest and my love handles have turned into a tire that has turned into a barrel. I have a problem with this. I don't give a shit. Not that I'm feeling good about getting fatter, I just don't let it bum me out. Listen, I have been depressed for an entire month and on a down slide for two or three. During that time I did nothing but lay in bed. I didn't have the energy to keep walking and burning calories like I did in September and so the weight slowly crept back.



But now Wellbutrin is back in my blood- stream, and it's starting to kick my ass. My up is going way up, and my down is almost gone. With this fact I exercise. I have the energy for it, so I'm doing it. Today I got up and got the fuck out of the room. I marched down to 91st street, one block more than yesterday, and I huffed and puffed less. My muscles were very knotted afterward though, but I was not half as winded as I was yesterday. This is beautiful.



So I do what I have to do. I do this and I do that now that I have the energy. But I still don't know what to write about. I'm sitting down at my laptop, staring at the screen and chewing on my upper lip, but still I have nothing to say. If everyone else lives a mundane life, mine must be super mundane, super droll. Even Paula, across the hall, has been silent today, giving me nothing to bitch about.



So, I guess you can say that today was clearly a very good day for me, and that I should be happy with it. I should, for the first time in my ungrateful life, be pleased with the day and vow to make the best of it. But I do not. I do not vow. I've just decided that today I'm going to blog and blog about absolutely nothing. Just let my fingers tickle the keyboard and see what lovely letters pop up on the screen. As if this blog has to have some damned meaning to begin with. It doesn't. All it needs is something stupid to come out of my pineapple head.



And I'm full of stupid shit. Further, now that the Wellbutrin is building in my blood- stream, I am a very happy camper, doing whatever it is that I want to do, and now having the energy to do it with. You'd be proud of me. I've also been working on my numerous short stories and sending them out to publishers also. I'm acting like a real author now, planning and scheming on how to get my manuscript into the marketplace. That is the thing. Keep those query letters, cover letters, synopses, bios out there to that they can be read and acted upon.



Just like a fisherman gets up early in the morning, baits and casts his line and sits by the water all day until evening, it takes persistence to win in the publishing game. This tenacity I KNOW I have. I find it very hard to give up anything. I will not give this up. So with that being said, I'm going to print out more short stories and keep them out in the marketplace along with my novels and see if I can start a string of successes that begin something great in my life.



Either that or I'm going to have the energy to write my blog, but absolutely nothing to write about. All this because I don't have a washing machine to bitch and moan over.

Sorry.

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