My Novels

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

Still not a happy camper these days. No weight issues, I'm hanging at 91 lbs. Still ride the bike almost every other morning, if the heat isn't too bad. And summers are the proverbial b*tch here in the South, pardon my French.

If I don't start writing again soon, I think the following excerpt is going to apply to myself:

I think about Hemingway. What a shot. What despair. What courage. Some insist that the suicide is both a coward and a cheat, but I think the suicide is rather courageous. To look at one's life and decide that it's not worth living, then to go through with the horrible act. Millions of people live lives that aren't worth living. Many fewer people end their worthless lives. To look down the barrel of the gun or over the lip of the pill bottle and say, "That is what I want, that is the world that needs me, better than breath, better than banging my bones through the remainder of these sorry days" --there is the courageous man and woman, the suicide." --From Jarhead, a novel by Anthony Swofford

Till later, I am somewhere in oblivion...

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