End of the Road

Don't freak out, I am not going to commit suicide, although wow, that would sure up my stats. If I were to do so I would announce it on Facebook where it could be appropriately mocked, not here where only a handful of loyal readers would see it. Besides, suicide is stupid since death will surely come without my intervention, and I'm kind of curious to see how it does.  No, I am simply out of gas, out of jokes, and out of perspective, which are three things you need to write a blog.

In addition, I lack relevance, if I ever had any, being as old as I am and thus unable to contribute in any meaningful way to the economy, which is what really matters after all. I barely shop, do not own earbuds, and watch reruns of old sitcoms from the the last century. I am not gay, which is what you have to be these days to matter. In fact, even being a run-of-the-mill gay is over; now you have to be a hermaphrodite and have sex with yourself to be considered interesting.

I am neither pierced nor tattooed, unless you count those holes in my ears I got when I was 17. They are symmetrical, with only one in each ear, and you cannot see daylight through them.

I speak English correctly, still write in cursive and only read books on paper. I hate texting; why bother? What could I have to say that possibly matters to anyone? I shall now go for a long walk and mull over this odd turn of events. (Thank God I can still walk and mull.)

I leave you with one final observation: Cats are crazy. This morning I gave Daisy half a can of Fancy Feast Flaked Tuna. She sniffed it and walked away without so much as a lick. Then a few hours later she started wailing for food. Rather than strangle her to silence that awful sound, I gave her the other half of the same can of Fancy Feast Flaked Tuna. She fairly attacked the dish, consuming every last morsel with gusto.

I no longer want to be a cat. Instead, I choose to be Recreations Director on a Carnival Cruise ship.