The Bloody Doors Off

Donald Trump shut down his blog because no one was reading it.

As my friend Scott would say, this proves my ramblings are more interesting than his.

Or ya know, he just gave up on it because he couldn’t figure out how to rhyme covefe.

(Machete.)

Danny Trejo got his start in movies not even as an extra. He was a fight coordinator for one of the actors, teaching them how to box, when he got asked if he’d take part as an extra in the fight scene.

My point. And I do have one.

Is. Even if I’m not writing plays, I’m still writing.

But gods, I wish we had a place large enough that both Marlo and I had private offices/rooms in which to work. It’s tough to concentrate when you’re on top of each other, and I know that is equally true for her.

But we both have noise-cancelling headphones, the next best thing.

Ugh. This post sucks.

Moving on.

The past couple of nights, I’ve had waves of sadness wash over me.

No instigating factor. It just happens.

The only reason I don’t cry is the bloody anti-depressants.

I could barely cry at my mother’s funeral and that was emotional.

Why do people encourage you to cry at funerals? Do we really need a cheering section?

I take that back. Everyone needs a cheering section. Just not for that.

Think of how easier work would be if you had a Greek chorus narrating your life.

I don’t know where I’m going with this.

Did I mention this post sucks?

The next one will be better.

Or it won’t.

But I’ll keep writing.

Take that, Donald.