As I sit

I'm conjuring what to compose about, because as you know, I'm not writing, I'M COMPOSING. Music, as much as I love it, I don't think it carries over much, unless you count the hard rock I'm listening to. I've also got Bioshock 2 paused for a moment, the endless fish swimming by becoming annoying. It's too late to keep going on this game, but I've ended up so close I almost have to. I've been applying at all sorts of places, and even considered doing a freelance bit for Game Informer. That should be interesting, if I'm even considered for the deal.

I'm writing to consider the implications of my last blog. I offended folk, I cussed a great deal, I signed on for ads to be on my blog so I can see a slight trickle of cash in my pocket. and yet. I'm rather indifferent about the ordeal. I stand by what I said about everything and everyone. I don't seem to really care if I offended anyone. All the same, it's not like I didn't think things through.

Writers block. Is it the same as lack of motivation? I feel like it is. That seems to be the only thing between me and commercialism paying for my spa trips to Hawaii. If only I was on the streets and had a better way of organizing my ideas on paper. Or rather written format. I just feel like I have nothing good to write. Regardless of various friends and do-gooders around me assuring me otherwise, I haven't found anyone that has experience in the matter, willing to read something that isn't refined from a student with paper saying they're qualified to write. Can you qualify something like that? Is it quantifiable? The artistic muse, the desire to create, even if it is something as garish as my written prose. Should I not be allowed to express myself, regardless of how poorly, if I don't have something signed by some faceless entity, assuring anyone that reads it that I am qualified to do so?

Doesn't kill my desire to learn the craft, rest assured, I still need an education. But it's almost like identification anymore, not so much education. At least that's how it feels. I'll write about it once I reach the other side.

Don't feel cynical today, so don't expect to laugh. Though I am dreading the moment I set foot in that pizza parlor. Sure is going to be a joy to start up working there again. For crying out loud, I'm a trained banker, not a dough flinger. But there is humility to be had, I'm sure.

Droll. That's what this is. Does anyone care this is written? There's no real value to this, you're not getting a laugh. You might at some of my earlier ones, to be sure.

I weep for my species. Especially if I'm the sample. Good heavens, leave it be.