One for the bin

What a . . . um . . . trying time, to accomplish anything, aside from work and dinner and sleep. And I’m beginning to wonder if people here don’t pack overnight bags, because. Well, just look at them all. They are here when I leave, here when I get in, at their desks over lunch, like me, except working.

Because my creative brain has become flaccid like a, erm, pencil that has gone flaccid – yeah, like one of those rubbery pencils you get in a magician’s kit or maybe as a joke, where you shake it all around and it goes wobble wobble wobble. But doesn’t write particularly well?

Yes, so because of that, my thoughts often work from the outside in now, i.e. environment; me versus my environment; environment vis a vis the future; spiralling down towards tedious introspection, &ct. All of this takes longer than what I've got, currrently. When really, all I want to do is say something that isn’t about me.

I could have said something about Arnold Schwarzenegger in the starring role of Junior, but I sort of missed the boat on that one. The contest boat, with its skull-and-crossbones sail and broken oars and . . . ah forget it.