More Whining

I'm pissed off. The bottom third of my computer screen has become a blacked-out mess of pulsating horizontal lines that make it impossible to get anything done without feeling epileptic. Tech support has been unhelpful, probably because I registered my complaint only minutes ago, after having put up with this problem for nearly two weeks. That's why I'm pissed off - I'm annoyed with myself. I can put up with anything. I won an award for it once. You could plop me down in the middle of the desert and instead of using the sun to navigate toward civilization, I'd lie down to get a tan and wait for the rain that never comes. That ain't good.

Neither is anything else I've done (not done) lately. Like I said in the last post, it's been all TV and weeping for the last few weeks, with infrequent breaks to go to Panera and work on the story I'm writing. Apparently, I can only write this story while dining on French Onion soup. This is not an acceptable quirk; in fact, I suspect it's not a quirk at all, but an excuse - I can't go to Panera every day. I can go maybe once a week. Once-a-week writing does not add up to great success anytime in the next five years or so. Which is perfect for me, because then I don't have to finish something I actually feel good about and think has potential.

Do I need psychotherapy, or what?

Anyway, I'm in unloading mode and I guess that's what this blog is for. I never took the time to define it, did I? Some people say right up front that their blog is a diary, some people insist it's a showcase of their serious writing, some people have an obvious agenda. Those people are probably also the ones with personal mission statements and five-year plans. (And readers.) I don't have any of that. Surprise.