Fu...fu...fu...

...fuggeddaboutit.

I was a good boy and worked today. I was pleased that the story I wrote yesterday did not read like a Google translation from Ruthenian or Coptic. A few little revisions -- including an easy trim of 150 words -- made it fine, and I sent it off.

The story I wrote today goes under the knife tomorrow. Being more impression than fact, it was not too painful.

I am the "infinite number of monkeys," but writing facile gibberish rather than Shakespeare.

My turmoil continues.

I'm sick of the way things are. And making the changes necessary, alone, without what might be called "moral support" -- a little more personal than that, to be fair -- strikes me as being impossible.

And the ghosts would follow wherever I went, anyway.