Pointless Drivel - Read At Your Own Risk

Though my life has not been, quite, a riot of new experiences, passionate love affairs (or even cheap flings), I've been neglecting my journal - and everyone else's for that matter.

I've been meaning to update for quite some while - and, now that I am actually sitting down at the keyboard to do it, I'm finding it hard to know what to say or even why I want to.

To I tell you (whoever you are) about the letter (hand-written no less, though we met via the net) I got from my ex from across the pond and how it made me feel? Or about the office party on Friday, during which I heard a fascinating story of danger, escape and forgivess from one of my co-workers? About my attendance at my first house-party in months? Or about how much I hate manual labour?

Or should I just apologize for the length and bad writing in my piece about my bad back (which is getting much better, thanks for asking)?

Fuck it. Nobody wants to hear about how much I hate working on my bicycle; and I don't want to talk about it. Pointless anger is pointless anger, no matter how heartfelt - especially when it's directed a machine.

I suppose I could bemoan my single-dom, but who wants to hear about that, either? Suffice it to say that being picky when you yourself are, at best, to the taste of a very small minority of women, leads to far too many nights with only a 37 year-old teddy bear and a self-centered cat for company.

Merde. Pointless drivel indeed.

So much for my Sunday. I think it's time to pay a visit to my local watering-hole.