el blocq du writer

i got nothing to say lately.

if you're a regular reader ... wait. who am i kidding? you're not my wife (but if you are -- "hello dear!") and you're not me, at work, obsessively hitting refresh every minute, just to see if maybe just maybe someone out there has stumbled across my little corner of the internet and decided to leave me a comment.

and if you are that anonymous stumbler, well, i wouldn't blame you if you did not, in fact, leave a message. i've given you nothing to work with! nothing whatsoever!

i guess i could write about my recovery from my horrific softball injury, but what's to say? do what the doctor says and you'll recover -- that's my advice to the kiddies out there. that, and take all the vicodin you need, unless you're brett favre, in which case i'd say take it only during those two weeks you play the vikings.

i guess i could write about work, but what's to say? when your manager treats you like you're 10 years old, deciding what's the best use of your time without consulting you ... when you're so under-staffed that you find yourself actually able to do less work because you've got so much to do ... why, when that's the case, all you can do is ... well ...

you know, i'm not sure. and i think that's the problem.

i see a huge decision looming right over the horizon for me. maybe it's work, maybe it's not -- whatever it is, i can see it coming, like the sunrise at dawn or some hot chick crossing the street two blocks up. i can see it coming, bouncing rhythmically, oscillating, undulating even ...

what was i talking about?

oh yeah. the future.

something's up, kids. i'll let you know when it gets here, but right now, whatever it is just keeps me from expressing any thoughts whatsoever.