Oh my Jesus!

I was productive today!
I washed dishes and applied for another job. (As a janitor from 10p.m to 4a.m.)

Things I want to do: (Updated version)
* Go to the dinosaur land in Granger, WA and take pictures/have a picnic
*Paint the animals eat people exhibition.
*Finish my children's book/my other book.
*Possibly give my other book a title.
*Go to the laundromat.
*Have a dance-a-thon
*Get a job and take Janet to the casino

It's a Tuesday night, but writer's club is not to be. I suppose I will work diligently on my novel and illustrations. I have not much else to do. No one to visit. Sean's ant-trap worked. All my old friends are dead and laying in a mass grave.
A hammer fell on my mother's head yesterday. Am I a bad person for finding that hilarious? (She's fine)
It's four in the afternoon and I've only had one cigarette today. I need an award.
I'm rambling. I have no point. The point is I suppose, that I am a pointless and meaningless human being. That I do not contribute to society or plan to. That I am still festering in my little studio half-garage just waiting to go bad and get tossed out. Not unlike the three bags of untouched salad greens that my mother so kindly gave me. (I trashed them today, I think they were composting)
Fuck me.
I didn't mean to be depressing again! I meant to write a cheery lighthearted and mildly hopeful piece about productivity and things I've yet to do and am looking forward to. Then it deteriorated into a sad lament.
I'm so sorry fan club. I promise to write something more optimistic next. Very soon hopefully. No one likes a sad sack.