Do you ever have those days where you wake up, make yourself a piece of toast and contemplate your place in the world and, in turn, the entire expanse of the universe? I call those days Mondays.
I think that there must have been some kind of poetic symmetry between my mood and the weather today, because instead of being greeted by the sunshine as I walked outside, instead, I walked right into a big gust of self-doubt. I hate Autumn.
I’m kidding of course. I love autumn.
Moving on. I’ve been trying to finish off a script for submission this week. It needs to be completed by Wednesday, but at this rate, I don’t see that happening. I like to think I can construct a cheesy joke. I think I have proficiency when it comes to writing cheese. But trying to write a whole script filled with them is making me lactose intolerant.
See, nailed it!
I think that writing is an incredibly personal and subjective outlet, and while I may be no Picasso, I think I can string together a sentence. But for the life of me, I can’t find a final punchline or resolution to my script at all. It’s all gag, no substance. I guess you could say my writing is a reflection of my personality. Self-burn.
And before I continue, yes, I do know Picasso wasn’t a writer. Yes, I do know Picasso was a famous photographer. Can we move on?
Tomorrow is ANZAC Day, and there is a dawn service taking place in the city. I’m not usually a big fan of 4 am, but I would hate to miss it. I’m not an overly patriotic person, but I do respect the sacrifices they gave for us. The least I can do is sacrifice a few hours sleep.
Oh, wait! I just thought of a joke for that stand-up comedy set I’m going to do. I don’t have it entirely worked out yet, but it involves a fantastic product I just made up called ‘Schrodongers’.
See if you can figure that one out.
Yes, I did just write about the ANZAC’s and Schrodongers in the same post. Sue me.