Those of you who have read my stuff in the past who that I am no stranger to feeling sorry for myself. That goes double for people who know me in person. I am often found slouched on a barstool with my hair hanging in my face and death in my eyes, swilling Jameson’s. Often, such as now, I’m scribbling something in my notebook that may or may not get transcribed into a blog entry.

Here I am in my element. Much of my humor comes from self pity, if not self hatred. This is especially true for the more offensive jokes that have have been part of my repertoire among friends for years and have recently begun to surface in Poison Spur. Child rape, for example, is no laughing matter but if you’re the biggest loser swine on the planet, you’re the prime candidate to try to make it so. Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway.

So for a change of pace, I decided to post something that lets my neuroses run wild but without any humor to dilute the message. Lucky you.

Yep, Dave has a case of the blues and doesn’t care who knows it. It’s not like this admission is going to cause anyone undue worry. Those close to me have seen enough of my mood swings to treat them with the sigh of resignation they deserve. As for the rest, I sincerely doubt any of them give a shit. However, if there is anyone out there who thinks you’ll be doing a good deed by having me legally committed for my own protection, please don’t. While it’s true I don’t feel like there’s much worth living for, there’s nothing worth dying for either so you’ll look pretty silly trying to 5150 my ass for simply being a party pooper.

OK, I’ve said my piece. Thank you for your patience. My next post will be chock full of dysfunctional jest, scout’s honor. Feel free to write this one off as a tiresome exercise in a jokester’s need to be taken seriously, just like Woody Allen’s Interiors but without the critical accolades.