The flashing cursor is here taunting me again.

Some days I see its existence and some days I’m completely inside my thoughts, barely aware of the world around me except as a set of external clues for triggering my writing out put.

In one of my safe houses that I’ve exposed to official authorities for a misleading raid, spider webs have been coated with a deadly powder.  Either that, or the powder is a type of tracking device so my associates can figure out who the faceless raiders are in real life and adjust future-prediction algorithms accordingly.

We’re feeding a regular conspiracy to the clueless, inducing news outlets to produce stories about a potential global financial default/disaster after which the World Currency is introduced to save our species from itself.

Gotta keep the people occupied with something, after all, while we manipulate the petty lives of worthless minions.

Sorry, wrong sentence – we need all seven billion of us to accomplish great achievements, I meant to say.

Do you shop from the Lillian Vernon catalogue or the Neiman Marcus catalogue or don’t even know what catalogue shopping is all about?

Yesterday, while viewing a blockbuster version of a Corman flick, throwing out a yuppy coupon to stare at images flashing on a flat wall, I asked myself why I’m waiting to die.

Why have I let myself live in a relationship where I fear and anticipate what my spouse is going to say next to me?

I forget who I am in those moments.

Am I a humourist? A journalist? A diarist? Leader of the secret association that controls the globe? Simply a set of states of energy that hasn’t reproduced itself?

Why have pinched nerves in my spinal column turned the prospect of sex into a torture chamber routine?

Putting religion aside, ignoring moral/ethical teaching of my elders, if life has no purpose other than life, why am I here?

While some industrialists want to create works of art out of office buildings, a la “The Fountainhead,” (see recent Steve Jobs news articles), I am left here to ask the simple question, “One, let the skin cancer on my belly continue to grow and kill myself slowly; two, take an afternoon nap and turn off my conscious train of thought, or; three, kill myself quickly?”

Yes to the first two.

Something interesting always turns up in one form of Muse or another amusing form, which I’ll consume and discard after describing in words.

Instant gratification for the long haul – that’s me.

Time for a forgettable lunch and a snooze.

Today’s the day for being a cranky middle-aged guy and that’s okay – no causes to support and no activists or news stories to make fun of.