Work

Something I have a problem with, work ethic. I deal with too many distractions. Hold on, my hands are freezing right now making typing a bit of a chore. It's like I just felt up Frosty the Snowman. OK that's a little better. As I was saying, work ethic is one of my biggest bugaboos. Sure, when I first started Medicated Minutes I made numerous posts all in a single day. Those were some writings from the past that I dredged up and knocked the dust off and posted for your sheer entertainment. I have plenty of writings left but so many of them are incomplete thanks to my work ethic. So I'm forced to write entries like this to keep the blog current where I'm out of witty sayings and phrases so expertly turned. There is nothing special about writer's block, besides I don't think I have writer's block. I'm just out of ideas. If I was able to snatch a good idea out of the great celestial wireless I would write the shit out of it. That reminds me, I did have an idea recently for a sitcom. It's about conjoined twins, one of whom is a Harvard educated astrophysicist and Nobel Prize winner. The other is mentally retarded. I even thought of a catchy sitcomish name for the show, "I'm With Stupid." It would never make it to air, too many protesters in wheelchairs holding up their misspelled signs and mumbling protest chants outside of the network headquarters; that is until an ice cream truck drives by and they wheel and limp after the vehicle with the pretty colors and funny music. I'm forcing it. Ah, caffeine doesn't work anymore. I'm switching to crack.

Day

I have plenty of good days. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a grumpy Gus all the time. I have days where I'm cleaning out the cesspool and discover a shiny new quarter. Good stuff.However it's gotten to a point where people unintentionally make me feel guilty whenever I don't have a good day."Why do you look so glum, Joe?" "I just sat on my balls, Reverend." Look I think it's perfectly normal to have days that just...suck. Some people have more of those days than others but I'm sick of the comments and false "Cheer ups!" from people I barely know. Anyone who has read anything on this blog, Hi Mom, will deduce that I'm not the most chipper guy normally. I tend to walk around with a perpetual look of a Basset Hound on suicide watch. That is no reason to saunter up to me, with a "pedophile in a candy store" grin and try to cheer me up with cliche phrases. Often I feel fine but people assume I'm deep in thought, pondering the purpose of the universe and questioning the reason for living. I'm thinking about breasts. I'm going through my photographic mental index of boobs, examining the curves, shapes and hang-time of these marvelous melons. I'm simply entertaining myself instead of eating my stale fucking tater tots in the school cafeteria and you approach me with your fake concern and ruin my boob-tastic times. Stop it. The only way I won't object to this in the future is if my interrupter is a woman willing to add her milk cups to my photo album.This has been one of those days.