It has come to my realization that I am much less than I thought I was and I never really thought I was much to begin with.

This could be a wonderful opening to a suicide note, except, I am not planning suicide. I don’t know what I’m planning. If in fact I had a plan of anything at all, I wouldn’t trust it, nor would I believe in it enough to get off my fat ass and do something about it, the plan that i had is a plan that is NOT! Your confused, I’m confused. Here, let’s have another one and toast another great man born on November 16th.

I’m sitting in my chair reading a good book with one mind, a good book by the way, while my mind (I think it’s my mind) is running of with another story that could be a book but never will be. I call it tandem mind time, reading words in a real book while the mind reals off another.

The hell is going on here?

In my hands is a book written by a great man, who by the way was born on October 15th, a great man indeed by his own admission, yes, in fact it is a book by Ed McBain. Money, Money, Money.
I have now lead you to a morsel of information to go on, though there is really no place to go because I am not, nor have I ever been a real leader. The book, the author, the birth date of a great man, and me, who at one time thought of himself (me) as a great man, is now exposed to everyone and no one, for the nothingness and uselessness and boringness that he (me) is, I mean I AM, but what AM I?

I mean—I don’t know what I mean.

I would bet my wife’s year-end bonus that you don’t know what I mean either. Ah Ha! the point sticks us. There is no meaning, there is no point.It is all pointless, a meaningless clicking of a clock that no one hears because the clock is digital and the flickering TV is on and numb ass people are doing numb ass things while American Idol wannabe’s bamboozle idol Americans into a 1080i coma, and for 10 minutes of every hour some ad cad is selling cars, beer, T-Mobile phones, and come-ons for other Idiot Idol American TV shows.

This is, as I said, pointless and just something to do while I can’t stand doing that same thing I do over and over and over night after night. She watches TV, I read; I’m bored, so then write nothing to nobody and play act that this is my final will and testament.

I lived in a tenement when I was a kid in New Jersey surrounded by other tenement dwellers who were Italians not from Italy but from Bayonne, or Newark or as far away as Secaucus, but not so far away you couldn’t smell um>look it up! ya want me to do everything for ya?

See, I’m not writer. I have no beginning, middle or end. No plot, no characterization, and no balls to commit suicide. But, if this is a life threatening emergency, I will hang up and dial 9 1 1 and get a squad of EMT’s who will charge me $1700 for a ride to the emergency room where they will shoot me up with Thorazine, or diazepam, or diaphragm (oops, that’s the sperm blocker story I’m planning for later), later will never come, nor will that story, nor will the great ending to this piece, because this is not a great piece, or even a story, or a suicide note, or a pizza, or anything worth editing or typesetting or designing or…or…..or……shit!I forgot where I was, or where I am.

Hang it up Edna. I’m gonna go open the refrigerator door and stand there and look for some stuff that’s not low-fat to stuff in my mouth and end it all, not my life, but this dribble of a waste of time. In my refrigerator revery she informs me she is now going upstairs to out bedroom where she will continue to watch TV, and I, with a low-fat fruit loopy go back to the real reading of a REAL writer.

Bless You Ed, where ever the hell ya are!

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