I don’t even know what to write about anymore. It seems like my life is just going on, normal days and normal stuff.

Winter out here is really quiet. Really really quiet. So, I spend time reading books and doing nothing in particular. My brother and his wife came out for Thanksgiving, but Christmas was just the three of us (well, plus 4 cats. So, 7 of us). Everyone is broke, so we didn’t do anything extravagent for Christmas. The day was really nice, though. Suzi brought her son, Dresden (17 months-ish) over, and we gave him a couple of toys from the store. Apparently the blocks I got him are a big hit, as it’s been almost a month and she says that he won’t let her ever put them away.

I was drinking a lot for a while there, and it was fun. Really really fun. Dance party til 5am (and only 3 participants) goodtimes. But, my waistline shows exactly how much I was drinking and partaking in holiday foods, so I’m chilling out for a while on that. Don’t get me wrong, I love danceparties in my friends living rooms, but holy crap my body hates me.

It’s weird… most of my deep thoughts come from things that happened at work. And really, I can never write about that again, no matter what the context. So, how the hell do I tell you the “you can’t make this shit up” stories, without crossing that line?

Damn. Therein lies the source of the writers block, I think. I don’t really know what to write about. There you have it.