This is my first post on this website in some time. Layouts of pages change, but the unpleasantness of the material world remains. I've got several short stories in progress, and I'm going to try and keep myself preoccupied with my fiction writing over the summer, if that provides any sliver of relief. Every single day, I try to come up with some lousy excuse to get out of my bed. I'm thoroughly convinced whatever effort I make to "improve" my psychological predicament and "achieve goals" will be fruitless, and therefore futile. I've spent years ranting about one of my writing projects, and all that I have to show for it is a shoddy draft (if it can really be called that) of exactly one hundred and eighteen pages. People say I should just give up, and get some menial job like being a janitor or ditch digger. Hopefully, if I make a decent wage, I'd save some money for a high-caliber pistol and a hollow point bullet to put myself out of everyone's misery. Truly, this world is only for the most unscrupulous and unfettered individuals. Why do you suppose men like Manson, Bundy, Dahmer, or Hitler are practically celebrities, even in death? Some of them even have t-shirts bearing their likenesses.