Discombobulation

I've been saying the same thing for months now.

My future is uncertain. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm teetering on the brink of The Rest Of My Life, but although the water is gushing behind and beside me and I can see the drop below, my kayak has got snarled on a twig.

Supposedly recruitment agents are handing my details out to employers who might want me to do short-term IT work and thereby earn some money. Timing-wise, the sooner this starts the better. No word on that so far.

Apparently there are publishers interested in my book, and some time soon I may be receiving concrete details of that. Not yet though.

Rumour has it that romantic weekends in Paris are good for procreation. But not so good if your body refuses to ovulate. Every morning I piss on a stick and wait for a little blue line to tell me to fuck off and make like a rabbit. Not today, apparently.

I know I know, it's old hat. I've been droning on about the same old stuff for months and months, and none of it ever goes anywhere.

Meanwhile there are hooks of the tenter variety firmly lodged in the back of my neck, and my Deluxe Swivel Office Chair is redundant, because I'm dangling from the ceiling as I type.


___