Complaining

A lot of the time, I find I'm never happy with anything. Case in point: I've just spent the best part of the last 40 minutes typing up post completely different to this, only to completely delete the lot and start on this instead. See, I can tell when it's a rubbish topic and that I'm not actually interested in what I'm writing when the paragraphs are short and take forever to come up with because I keep stopping mid-sentence to check the dirt under my fingernails. In hindsight, it's really not all that good anyway when the post essentially talks about swearing toddlers and the fact that babies - just like the rest of us - defecate.

Since my last moan-fest on here about how I have no means of financial support, two job offers have found their ways into my inbox, causing me to stop blaming the virtual postmen for losing my stuff in the vast ether and actually realising that I'm able to receive messages just fine. Furthermore, the fact that two of my conquests managed to get back in touch with me, that means that the other 37 people and places I've politely asked for employment have all ignored me and that they're obviously bastards.

The two respondents - whom I'd like to stress are definitely not bad at all - cover bother short- and long-term bases for me; one could potentially help to kickstart a career in writing whilst the other is what could be classed as "the day job" people are often advised not to give up. So soon, I could have regular access to money and stop complaining about how I'm never happy. Actually, that's a point. Since I complained about it so much in my last post, only for job-related advances to occur in my life, I could use this bit of web space to my advantage and moan about more things I'm not happy about. Then over the course of the coming week I can expect my luck to turn.

At the risk of sounding topical, I'd like to end by moaning about the latest monarchistic birth and how nobody cares what name he'll be given. At least I don't anyway. It's not like I've put a bet on what the kid's name will be that I'm not going to win. Stupid baby. Anyway, if you're reading this in 2089, Your Majesty, with your brain linked up to the Ultra-Hyper-Inter-Highway from your throne in the floating palace of the sky metropolis of New Londinium, I'm turning 100 years old around now. If you weren't offended by that "stupid baby" remark and you can find it in your heart to not execute me, I'd very much like a congratulatory birthday telegram or whatever it is you get when you're 100 now. If I don't get it soon, I'll only write a blog post (or think it, or however we put stuff on here now) complaining about it, meaning I'll definitely get it within the next week.

What am I doing?

Okay, erm. Well at the moment I don't really have anything else to complain about. If anything comes up though, I'll be in touch. Thanks Universe.