Rebirth

     Ah. Writing. I haven’t done this in awhile. At least not that anyone other that Mara has seen. I really ought to write. A few people have sent some inquiries and were met with the usual stoic response. So, not much has happened to me other than the usual giddiness of a wonderful relationship. I figured no one wanted to hear the natty details of my concupiscence. Life, other than that, is feebage. I feeb 56 hours a week. For this, I went through school.
     I do, however, recognize the need to write. The question, though, is what to write. I really don’t have much to write about, and even less to think about. What can I add to the already maddening crowds of political and religious ranting? When I was living life, my experiences were fresh and now I’m fed stale experience by some kind of latent duck feeder. I peck at the crumbs hungrily, looking for existential stipulation. I look forward to getting back on two wheels. Certainly, death and parental abuse are a given while riding, but at least life is marginally enjoyable, beyond love.
     So, a site tells me to keep my blogs rather short. This is doable. I’ll be more likely to write daily if I can pull something off in under a half hour. I’m sure I can direct my hand away from my dick for a half hour and pound out something decent for y’all peepers. I’ll keep everything under 500 words, unless something really riles me up or I post one of my stories. I bought a writer’s guide and have been perusing it. Every story I write will come up here in some form. Isn’t that groovy?
     
     D out.