I'm unable to sustain a world of my own imagining that is any good for even my own deluded psyche to inhabit. What makes me think I can or should be able to create a real world to live in that is enjoyable by two people? Tell me that, would you?
I can make tea, eat cornbread muffins and pancakes at ten o'clock at night, drink 3/4 of a bottle of wine and smoke an entire bowl before, during and after dinner--yes, all of this is true. And I can dance around the kitchen with the urn containing the remains of Sharon's ashes. Or not do that.
Maybe I am qualified to pet a kitty or two, or pick a Master Lock 175 or 176, but that's about it. Other than that, useless as a feather. A single feather can accomplish nothing. Give me a complete wing and I'll still be one wing short of a flapping machine.
That's where I'm at. Nowhere. Like, Nowheresville, man. Yeah. This was pointless.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.