I've promised myself all month that I'd write some little something, no matter how trivial - and let's face it, it's all trivial - if for no other reason than to just, once again, "keep my hand in". And all month, this or that has given me the opportunity to put it off. Frankly, I think this experiment is a failure.
Oh, sure, there's plenty to write about. Gun wienies showing their final colors. My conversion to Apple and any possible connection to Discordianism or the Illuminati. Family to and fro. Work, and considerations thereon. The year in review and whether it was worth reviewing. The never-ending unwinding of Tight-Assed White People and Real American Conservatives, often but not always one and the same. The complete failure of anything noticeable happening Saturday a week back and them that championed that stroke's continuing failure to have any sense of shame whatsoever. Cute stories about the dog.
Lots of stuff, but I just don't feel the urge. It's not that I'm blocked, I am just far too tired, mentally and physical, to fool with it. There's other nonsense that tugs on my attention, both mentally and physically. I just don't feel like a writer these days, I suppose. I don't feel like a philosopher or a cook, neither, for what it's worth. I feel like a boyfriend but it feels weird and a bit unsettling. Still not sure how I feel about being a dog owner, but I don't mind it so much.
So there's that. See ya in 2013. Maybe.