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