Rambling

30 minutes to deadline and I have nothing to say, rare for me as it is. I guess by setting these deadlines for myself I believe my writing will get better or somehow more coherent. Maybe it's just for practice that I do this to myself. So I'll be "more than ready" when the time comes for me to write my first piece. A true Horatio Alger hero, from rags to riches, riding the crest of a magnificent creative wave that will carry me to the top. Of what? The blogosphere? The front page of the New York Times? As a bystander and visionary I'm not entitled to say, I can just sit back, observe and report on the daily happenings of a minuscule life. A doomed life, a life at the mercy of conviction with the chance of being emasculated by some Femme Fatale Figure who turns up in my office one day saying "There after me, those pigs, those swine! You're my only hope, will you help me?" And with those doe eyes how can I say no? It'd be Unamerican, in this drizzly year of our lord, 2010.