You Can't Imagine How Boring I Can Be

Sherlock Holmes. Famous detective. Brilliant guy, if fictional. He had a few quirks, not the least of which was he was a drug addict. If there was not a case to occupy his mind, he would turn to cocaine, a 7% solution self-injected into his forearm.

I bring this up to explain why I'm not writing lately. Writing, you see, is my cocaine. It's something I do when my awesome mental powers aren't needed elsewhere. Sadly, I'm putting them to use in the service of getting my own life back together. Look, it was a bad week. My divorce progressed painfully, I moved out of my house and into the swinging bachelor pad, and the very day after I got into the new place they laid me off from my job. I worked for a subprime mortgage lender. Should have seen it comin'

Anyway you'd think I'd have more free time but I have less. I spend most of the weekday work hours looking for work. And surely you know that finding work is way more work than doing work. Then in the evenings, after the temp agencies are closed, I try to beat my little studio apartment into place. I have been haunting the thrift stores trying to find the perfect kitchen table, the best salt shakers. I've been keeping an eye out for the right shade of blonde wood. I've been going through my digital photo library and finding good pictures that don't have my ex-wife or ex-dogs in them.

I've been installing water filters so I don't have to buy bottled water.

I'm excited as hell because tomorrow they finally turn on the gas in this place and I can boil water and make my own pasta, which I will top with frozen meatballs, oregano, and olive oil.

Anyway, I have a job interview tomorrow and sooner or later I'll run out of things to buy for the place (I still have to find a set of throw pillows for that futon!) and then, I'll be writing all the time to alleviate the boredom of living in a tiny place like this.

Or, hopefully, dating.