Making the attempt to speak, at least

One doesn't need a reason to write, but one does need something to write about, does one not? And I have spent weeks on nothing, so what is there to say? I could create a world; I could live in one created by another, and by so doing either, I could ignore this one. Which would be lovely, as far as I am concerned.

I'd rather be more impressive than that, though. I'd like to impress at least myself. It isn't even hard to do, so I think it's doable, maybe. Maybe.

Where's a muse when you need one?

I do enjoy a good ramble through my own thoughts. I apologize, internet.

If anything was happening, I'd say more on the subject of anything at all.

My brain is starting to atrophy. I don't much care for the feeling.

It's uncomfortable, to say the least. Sorta sludgy.

Blech.

Trufax

I have spent the last couple of weeks inhaling a new fictional universe.

(Fabulous.)

I thought so, yes.

(Instead of accomplishing anything.)

Wouldn't say that, necessarily. Personal record, you know.

(Anything useful. Like finding a job. With which to earn money. Which you desperately need.)

Killjoy. I painted the trim in my room. Kept my room relatively clean. 

(Relatively being the operative word.)

No pleasing you, is there?

(Of course not.) 

Because you're me.

(And I have standards.)

To which I never, ever live up.

(Precisely so.)

...Fabulous.