Here I sit and eat my lunch
The lettuce makes a lovely crunch
When on it I snack and munch
Thank God for salad - thanks a bunch!

I'm writing poetry today
It's not like me to be this way
I think my brain has gone astray
This isn't good - it's not okay.

But I'll go home and have a drink
Tune out my mind, try not to think
There I'll sit until I stink
And the sun comes up, all pink.

On Not Writing

I sit here all day staring at the computer. Why don't I write? Why don't I write? Why don't I write?

Maybe if I write "Why don't I write?" enough times, one day I will write. I wrote this morning, actually. Just not enough.

Why don't I ever like anything I write? Why isn't it good enough for me? Why do I think I have to like what I write? Why do I not just write stuff, put it "out there" and see what happens?

On Winter

Goddam it, it's just March. I'm depressed. We Torontonians sat there all of November, December, and January, waiting for winter to begin. Then in February, it started to get warm, and we thought, "Oh. Guess winter's cancelled this year. Guess they were right about global warming. Guess we'd better do something about it."

Then winter came. It's hard to really get serious about global warming when it's this fucking cold.

On Blogging

I've decided I don't give a shit about trying to be relevant on my blog. Why should I? No-one else does. Weird that all through my childhood I was the only kid I knew who kept a journal. Now everyone in the world keeps a journal, and they make them public too.