One very quick note from today is that if I’m shaking your hand, and you and your family are worth not just millions but billions of American US currency dollar bills, no sweater vests, OK?

I met someone from the rarefied space of high-net worth individuals or Colbert Platinum, and he was dressed like Richie Rich or the young Ricky Schroder of Silver Spoons days. All I’m asking is if you can buy and sell me and my whole entire family for generations, don’t dress like one of the rich assholes from Caddyshack.

The second quick note from the day gets filed under what is done can’t be undone and freaks me the fuck out.

The helpful ex-prof guy at work who’s been away and told me to do some writing while he was gone is briefly back. I dropped off my paltrey offerings of prose, aka total crap, for his perusing. He’s planning to give me some feedback tomorrow afternoon.

I suspect he might just weep inconsolably, unable to find the words, “Jesus Christ, you talentless, delusional fuck, why did you put me through that?”

Talentless, uninteresting and delusional I may be, but I did surprise myself. Once I got the bullshit formatted, I had 43 pages spread over 2.5 or so chapters. Chapters with catchy names like “Fire” and “Funeral.”

The thing I think sucks to the core of writing is that totally horrible feeling of “Why am I putting myself through this?” Is there any other activity that makes you want to vomit with self-doubt so frequently?