So...

Last night was one of those nights where I realized that much of my passion for writing has gone. I had meant to work on it, but between the boredome during the daylight hours, returning home to deal with a crushing amoung of Lethe work (and drama, thank you Tor, for being greedy), I just wanted to play Civilization V all night long. When I finally went to bed with a book, an old collection of Civil War ghost stories to see if there was one I might have missed, everything I read was just so awful. It just reinforced the nihilism of writing -- stories may see print, but the book will end up in a used bookstore until cracked open, frowned upon, and discarded.

I'm still stinging from massive betrayals of people who I once considered serious friends. But, my father once told me that people do this all the time, the only person you should ever count on is a) your parents and b) your wife. And now a) is down to one and b) is never going to happen.