Hi, Keri, How's it goin'? Hope you're enjoying--that this is what you had in mind, but you couldn't have terribly much in mind from those hundred fifty whatever apercus. No matter. You've plunged me into the much where I belong. The novel feels like stiff laced shoes; the blog keds with the laces open. The book, had I, were I to, finish it might have meaning, like speeding limits posted along a highway. Here were go as fast or as slow as we please and if some meaning happens by we either take a sharp left or squash the mother.

So here's one for you. Why am I so fucking miserable when my life sucks not that much more than it always has. Age? I would have thought you would pay less not more attention to the bullshit that your head is feeding you 24/7/ Wanna know how really fucked up I am? I have this elderly shrink, whose pretty good as a shrink, neither better nor worse than the other half dozen I've had, but is the kindest man I've ever met and no matter what kind of shit I let fly at him he'll say something like, "That's an interesting point. When did you first start feeling that way?" Unmitigated kindness is impossible to defeat or avoid. It just smarms all over you and for the hour you feel it soothing every fiber of your being you can actually think, "You know what? This gig may not be so bad after all." But then you leave and in ten minutes you're pushing old ladies in wheel chairs out of the way to get on the bus ahead of them. Maybe it's New York. I've lived here most of my life. I'm seriously thinking of moving to the country now. I guess it's possible to be more lonely than I feel and if there is a way I'll find it.

I was going to say something about what you see when you open your door in NY but I couldn't remember whether I said it last blaahg. I make it a point never to go back and read what I've written or I could be writing the fucking novel or doing something useful like putting together the 1000 piece crossword puzzle of a cat with flowers that I got from Amazon to determine once and for all whether I have dementia. I'm certain I do. My shrink says it's just depression. I'll show him.

I figure if I have dementia I can opt out of any attempts to do anything that might make me feel better which makes me feel better already as attempts to feel better invariably end in failure.

Keri, I need you to tell me whether I am circling in on a subject yet and if you think it is a good one. Here's what I think: The subject is being a good person how hard, how fucking virtually impossible it is to become one but if you somehow miraculously do, how fucking happy you are. You are so happy that you make everyone who comes in contact with you too, even your cats, though it's a little hard to tell sometimes.

Here's the other thing you need to know, Keri. I require endless encouragement or this will fizzle out after seven entries. I have not allowed myself to look at how many people I have lost who used to follow my tweets because I stopped tweeting because I was too depressed and it got too complicated.  I should also warn you, however, that if you tell me, "God, this really sucks beyond my wildest non-expectations," it might also have the reverse effect and encourage me. I don't know Keri from Adam. Who the fuck does he (she?) think they are telling me my prose sucks. I'll be the judge of that. And if it does suck, whose losing anything by it. Are people across America being strapped to their chairs, toothpicks holding their eyes open and this blog in front of them as they scream, No, no more please. I'll do anything. Just take it away." 

I think I said this before, Keri, but I am something of a computer moron and my computer is fucked up to boot so if you want to say anything to me use a medium like a two cans and a string that I can relate to. Also, keep in mind I wrote 700 pages of bullshit not unsimilar to this, but I think I got rid of a lot of the anger. But without the anger, I'm not sure what's left. Peace and love?