Oh dear. I almost posted this really lame rant about depression last night - I compared the membrane that closes over the throat of a diptheria victim with something that happens to the depressed soul...good God. I think that's quite enough of that.
I am out of practice, blog-wise. It's hard not to start off pretty self-conscious, but then that passes and everyone starts to inexplicably think he's completely incredible and that everyone really, really cares about his opinion of some movie that came out 25 years ago and which he, the blogger, has just 'discovered,' and really, unless there's some nifty angle worthy of a publishing deal, which is to say, something dishy or salacious or nichey, really, who cares.
But, gee whiz, I've gotten sour.
Let's face facts:
I recently broke up with my fiance (whom I'd dated for 8 years.) As a result, I live with my parents. Oh, and in case you're wondering, there's not much doing with my career, either.
As to being on my own, well, there is nothing especially tragic or dramatic about it. That's what I tell people too, "it's not tragic, or dramatic. It is what it is." And I say it in this kind of stoic, humble way. Which would be all very well, if I wasn't saying it to customers at the store, who don't really care. But it's true that I don't go in for break-up songs or that sort of nonsense.
Am sort of considering dating Salman Rushdie. I hear he is newly single, too. (His career, one imagines, somewhat less stagnant. Also, better living situation.)