I am assuming no one is interested in the particulars of the title, except maybe for the last one. That's the only one that's unique in any way. The divorced and fired parts were ugly as they all are and threw me on my ass like a cockroach on its back trying to right itself. I'm still trying. Why I am still trying and exactly what I am trying to do elude me, though I pay $400 in therapy bills a week to try and find out. It may be that I find out that I will never know, which, I guess, is as valuable as finding out anything else. It may be that I will find out that I am wasting the thimbleful of talent I have writing this thing instead of busting a gut trying to write that fucking novel, the 30 pages of which I have and just read out. They're not terrible. I learned that from the 700 last year. They're just so orderly in the way a children's story is orderly. It will have a beginning, a middle, an end and tomato juice. I spent six months thinking about whether the story could be written; another six months deciding whether it  should be written and another six months obsessing over whether I could write it. I decided I wouldn't have wasted the previous year thinking about it if I seriously didn't think I could do it. The one blog I did was a pebble in a lake. I quickly decided if I were to put the effort into the novel that it required, and since it was me doing the writing it required two or three times as much effort as anyone else doing it, then I couldn't waste my time on blogs, which I don't understand until I get into writing an entry and it seems the most natural thing in the world. The fact that I never read what I've written or correct things that contradict each other make the writing of blogs so much more fun than the writing of a novel where you have to starch out every word to be sure it's not too much like a similar word in the previous sentence. All this to give the illusion that what you are writing is really happening or has really happened, which of course is not true. The real meaning of a novel is to give people something to do on a train rather than staring at the ugly people facing them. I guess blogs can be read on trains now as well but the casualness of the medium coupled with the casualness of the ride makes me feel like I would slide off my chair, across the floor and through the opening at the bottom of the door, whereas a novel keeps you securely fastened to your seat, even without a belt. I go back and look at the novel every day to make sure I am making the right decision on how to use me meager endowment of expression. I don't think there's an answer. I'm not even sure there's a question. But there is something to be said for writing something as you are thinking it and letting it be as opposed to structuring it into ersatz reality. Thus, for at least another day, we are here. Brahms, by the way, will be back. If you have no interest in classical music there are going to be parts of the blog that are even more boring to you than the parts that aren't about classical music. They are marginal, but necessary. Mahler said something to the effect that he wanted to include the whole world in his symphonies. I want to include as many unrelated aspects of my being as I can think of, thereby giving an accurate portrait of who the fuck I am, once I find out in therapy.