Insurance kicks in on the first of next month. Gonna see a shrink, I suppose, and get on some brain medicine that makes being mediocre "Fine and Dandy."

My future wife believes that I blame my black moods on her and the baby, but all to the contrary. I blame myself for not having developed a skill or talent that would have gained me some notoriety and income before I became too old to do so. Bukowski may have had the patience to hold on until he was fifty or so, but he had that Germanic willpower that maintains ad infinitum. I, however, do not. Too much of a mongrel to have any ethnic superpowers.

Always imagined myself as either a hack writer, or part of some sneering/effete avant-garde that didn't have to work a crummy job, or didn't have to work a crummy job alone for income. Of course, I also figured that by cultivating a talent and living the requisite lifestyle would provide credibility, but doing so means nothing in this day and age. Now, as it has been, anyone with a computer and a kernel of undeveloped, hardly original material can be designated a "writer," and they are even allowed to publish their own material.

But you aren't a writer until you've been published for money. True story.

Lovey said she's interested in co-authoring a work with me, but in the meantime, I've gotta get back into shape, otherwise the whole thing's for naught. Out of practice as a wordsmith, you see. Not that I ever was one, but one can always dream.

If I fail at this, you may as well call me the Grey Man, because I'll be like everyone else, and everyone else is dull and forgettable.

Who Judged.