There are so many difficult parts to doing this in addition to just doing it and I feel I must air my laundry lest a reader, if there is one, get contaminated. Much, actually all of what I say pertains to me wretched personal life and why anybody should be interested in it is beyond me. Fuck, I'd get out if I could. But a close friend two years younger than me died a couple of days ago and if that's what getting out is, I guess I have to stay and make  a public asshole of myself.

For this thing to make any sense at all to a reader probably requires his or her knowing something about me and that is not something I am about to reveal. It is a sleeping dog and I am not going to poke it with a stick.  But the events that have exhausted this dog into its slumber, things like getting fired from a job of 25 years and being walked out on after a marriage of 25 years within a five year period for both are the sorts of things that happen, I believe, to Americans all over the country every day, except they don't whine and make such a big deal about it. They find new wives and new jobs and get on with their new lives, some considerably happier than their old ones.

Ah, that I could do that. I  wistfully wish for the good old days, although, with the help of a therapist, the more I looked at them, the less good they looked.
But they did provide a floor beneath my feet, which is something I no longer have, so I respect bad jobs and bad marriages much more than I did because they are so much better than bad nothing.

Actually, I got two cats, about whom I was attempting and may continue to attempt, if I am capable of attempting anything at this point, to write a book book, which was why I abandoned the blog after one shot. Though I was an editor for many years, I don't think I ever fully appreciated the difficulty of writing a book book (and this was before you had to have live monsters jump out of the pages), whereas writing a blog-- who the fuck knows exactly what it is and who the fuck  cares. I guess in my case, it's sort of my thought processes, if I may flatter myself, about everything except the blog.

Last year, in an attempt to structure the chaos of my life into something that resembled a novel or a coherent piece of nonfiction, I wrote seven hundred pages which three weeks after I had finished I found utterly unreadable and completely boring, You might say that this blog is that blah's Greatest Hits.
I am fairly certain it is an unhappy tale that will end unhappily, so if you prefer jollity, you should probably find another blog. I told you I would quickly find some sort of form. I am not there yet but it is starting to feel like the story of a man who thought he was happy, discovered he really wasn't and is making a last ditch effort to attain the happiness he thought he had. Or something like that. Thanks for listening. You deserve a drink or a funny hat.