Aw, man. I don't know what to write about. I think I've been operating on a low level depression for the past few months. This has been the busy season at work, but it's nothing like the old job, with the constant requests for "as much overtime as you can stand". Of course, looking at my credit card bill--with charges for homeschool curriculum and Christmas presents--I think I'd welcome as much overtime as I can stand. I think I'm just one of those whiney-boys who's never satisfied.

Still, I got to make George W. Bush bald the other day. Much more satisfying that matching color on fine fashion or processing coffee posters. So why aren't I happy? Maybe defacing pictures of politicians isn't the source of true lasting happiness. Maybe I need to find something different. I wonder if it's too late to get in on that novel writing month thing....

Labels: silliness, whining, work

I suppose if I intend to go to the weblogger's meetup this month, I should actually blog. Anyway, I'd like to say I've been suffering from writer's block, but that implies a hindrance to a desire to write. I think what I've got is better termed writer's apathy. I really don't feel like I have anything to say. My life in America is boring and for the past few weeks I've embraced that destiny. (I've also watched a lot of TV--well, relatively speaking. I wonder what that indicates?)

Anyway, the title refers to my hands. At work we've printed a mess of fancy-schmancy Thanksgiving cards--a five paneled thing with a special die-cut to evoke autumn leaves. Anyway, everybody in the shop has been drafted to fold the flurshugginer things, so we can ship them off to the mailing company. Y'know, as a rich American, I've always assumed that machines handled all this drudge work. I guess you're never too old to learn about the real world.

Labels: life, work