THIS IS THE MEANING OF LIFE.

Came home from work early. Felt overdone. Finished something. Had a glass of wine. Make me feel poisoned. Can’t I drink wine at all anymore? What should I switch to…chocolate milk? Then I watched the news for awhile. Felt the level of poison in my world rising. Turned off the news. I am depressed. Really? Yes. Should write all of this in my paper journal where no one will ever see it and say ‘what drivel!’ But this blog is my on-line journal for the days I’m not writing about travel. All journals have some drivel, isn’t that true? Besides you can say whatever you want when you’re depressed. Still feel overdone. Like an overcooked limp tasteless vegetable. Like cooked celery which may be the world’s grossest food. That’s what I feel like. I ate a bowl of instant grits with Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter stuff on it. That was really depressing. But if I feel off/overdone/depressed/poisoned butter makes me sick. Now it’s too early to go to bed. All week I’ve read and read and written and written and I can’t intake or output another word. I know…I’ll watch episode 2 of a French crime thriller on Netflix. Yay, Netflix, I can always count on you to keep me from thinking about how depressed I am. Poisoned by my environment. Save me Netflix… Nah, I’ll read. I have some new memoirs to read because I’m taking a memoir class. But I don’t usually like memoirs so that will just make me more depressed. Overdone. Creeped out. Despondent. I’m writing a travel memoir. I like them. But not tonight. Anyone that eats instant grits with margarine for their dinner deserves to be thrown away. I should be thrown away.

There. Now I feel better. I am going to post gibberish. With a throw-away photo. Because I can. Isn’t that what the internet of everything is all about. The right of every god-fearing human and non-human alike to think and say and write gibberish.