When did I lose my touch?

You know, time was, I was an okay-sorta writer. Now, I can't write to save my tiny hiney.

I'm going through my crap poetry, getting it all ready to make it's silly debut online, and at the same time, I'm coming across a lot of prose that I've written over the years, and instead of cringing in shame that I was compelled to put pen to paper, I've actually wondered why I never developed some things more fully. I mean, the real test of whether my writings are any good is if I find myself amused when reading them, because I'm the worst critic of myself and everyone else, and little amuses me. So if, years on, I am still amused...I have to wonder why I stopped.

I'm not publishing-worthy, but writing always soothed me and killed a few hours when I had nothing to do. I think the problem is that I'm not miserable enough. I always wrote when I was hurting, mad, upset, depressed, etc., and right now, all's well. My seasonal depression is under control (thanks to the Cancún trip), Rod and I are getting along just fine, and I'm almost done school. Everything's just ducky. Which doesn't bode well for the creative forces. Eh. Whatever. I guess I could put all of my energy into the blog and keep you 4 readers glued ooey-blooey to your screens.

In other news, Rod may have lost over 200 pictures we've taken over this past year, and after conferring with Jette, I've come to the decision that it must be time to have Rod put to sleep. It's far more humane than me beating or yelling him to death. I know it's not his fault his hard drive went belly up, but it's his fault for not transferring the contents of the shared folder to the new hard drive before the old one martyred itself in the name of bad computer parts everywhere. Not amused.