The Happiest Days of Our Lives

Watched The War Tapes. Toward the end of the documentary, the soldiers we've been following are sent back home, and there's a big parade, and all the loved-ones show up to welcome them back -- girlfriends, wives, families...

Then we see a small group of soldiers who aren't hugging anybody, and one of them says,

"Where's the losers-with-no-family section?"

I think that's my permanent fucking address:

The Losers-With-No-Family Section.

I could go off to Antarctica for a year, come back, and NOBODY would be waiting to see me!

HA HA!!

(Friends don't count, by the way. As much as I cherish them, I've got more than enough coupled-up friends to fucking remind me that I am the odd man out, thankyouverymuch!)

At childhood I managed to choose the perfect profession to help me not meet anyone. I'm a fucking writer!!! Thank you, Child Malice.

Another conference call this afternoon, to discuss the new draft and the improvements I can make to it by Friday. BIG FRIDAY DRAFT. I can do this. My social life may be a fragmented mess, but I know I can write. I can get my work done.

Maybe I should call back that stripper who called me the other week. I wonder if she's still alive...