I sigh. I realize its my father's birthday tomorrow. Heck I don't even know if he is still alive and to be honest not sure how old he is. He must have been born in 1938. At least that is the year that sticks out in my mind. That would make him about 66 years old. But I really don't care. And it has nothing to do with me today. And again I think, why am I pondering this useless clump of garbage when there is so much other refuse to digest.

Work is the only thing in my life. Other than being ill this past weekend. It got so bad I hugged the throne for a few moments and got a technicolor view of the contents of my stomach. I save the even more colorful details for a memoir book or something in my sixties, but it floored me out. Which really bugged me because I accepted a job with Kraft and I had hoped to get most of it done during the time I wallowed in misery beneath the comfort of my blankets.

Don't even get me started about where I am in my writing. I haven't given it any time for the past couple of weeks. Not that I don't have anything to write, but I just don't have the time. But after this week things should calm down for a bit and I'll be able to continue on with it.

Enough about me.