Sinister: Butt arrests cement, wolves crash

[Mark Casarotto]

The title is a note I actually wrote today while editing the latest smash
hit episode of "Sheeep" (sic). Sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing.

Bad day. Very bad day. I can't remember the last time I actually believed I
was good at my job. Grrr. My boss is impossible, my memory's fuzzy, my
office is sweltering and my motivation is a self-defeating paradox.

Poor Miss Vicky is still off work with her horrific ankle injury - hours
away from gangrene, I reckon - and I don't half envy her. Having never
thrown a sickie in my life, I feel darn close to throwing one now, except
for the fact that I'd spend the whole day not knowing what to do and feeling
pointlessly, faultlessly guilty. Guilt sucks.

Mental blocks suck too. So does wondering what other career you could switch
to and realising that you don't have a clue what else you could do. I like
to think I'm quite anal, so perhaps I could make lists all day (no, on
second thoughts I prefer to leave that for my free time). Perhaps I could
form a band? Perhaps I could get my four track to work. Perhaps I could
email all my lovely friends who I've been ignoring lately. Perhaps I could
write, like, proper letters to all my other non-wired friends who I've been
ignoring lately. Perhaps I should go for retail therapy. But what do I want?
A dishwasher. No, really. My parents say it's a stupid idea - someone living
on their own shouldn't have a dishwasher, and perhaps they're right. But you
waste valuable loafing time washing up...

Perhaps I should become a whiny self-conscious novelist. This is the kind of
thing they seem to write on their oh-so-important first page, revealing the
pattern for the self-indulgent self-centered self-pity you just know you're
going to find within. But I can't write, as I'm rather depressingly finding
out.

Gosh, I am a moody old bugger today! Just what over 1,000 of you needed.
Sorry about that. 

Desperately thinking of something relevant and witty to say,
Mark xxx




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