“Now there is not much left of me / at least not much I’d let you see”

I am tired.  I slept about five hours or so, and went to bed relatively sober, but these impenetrable clouds and the cauldron of tepid coffee in my stomach are oppressing me.  I want to sleep.  Not to mention it’s a fucking icebox in my office this morning.  What the hell?

I know, I know; I sound cranky.  I’m not, really.  I’m not much of anything.  Work-Me doesn’t feel happiness or anger or joy or cantakerousness; It just produces.  That’s what I do.  I’m a producer.

Next week I turn 33.  <— (I’m supposed to place some commentary on that statement but I have no idea what it might be.  I don’t feel anything.)

This is the fourth or fifth blog that I’ve begun writing in the past two months.  I start them and trash them, realizing that I have nothing to say.  I’ve been busy with my new band, working on a film for a friend, writing new material, working, and trying to find time to wedge my wife in my schedule at some point.  When I’m not busy, I’m languidly lounging in various temperature-controlled environments: movie theaters, shopping malls, my dismally frigid office writing and deleting blogs with the careless brush of a disinterested deity.  I sleep the days away out of fear; what trouble would I get into if I dared to venture into the world?

What do I have to say?  I stare into the expectant whiteness of this space and ask my brain to run off into the corner and bring back something interesting but it always returns with the same battered tennis-ball of my loneliness and directionlessness and sets it down before me, dangling its grotesque tounge greedily from its fetid mouth.  I don’t know what it wants, what it thinks it will be rewarded with for such a paltry offering.

Here’s a few pictures of stupid things that I’ve done around the workplace to entertain myself:

So, yeah, that’s some of the elementary shit I do around here to keep me from going crazy.

I really have nothing to say.

I’m going to stop this now.  I would like a nap.