I spent most of the day painting a bathroom, I hate the color I choose. How it came across on the card as matching one I've used elsewhere and once on the walls looks so different is beyond my feeble imagination.

Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! I received an e-mail today looking for the link to some of the stories I've written for Nifty, it's been almost a year since I posted any. I was happy to hear that anyone was still interested in the stories. Maybe, I'll go back to writing stories for them, it was a good experience (both in imagination and discipline). The little writing I've done for this blog is nothing compared to the stories I was chronicling for their readers.

I stopped writing short stories and tried applying my hand to writing a novel. In time I have written at least four, none of which I am pleased enough with to attempt publishing. Part of the problem is that I am not certain I have anything to say that the public hasn't heard in better forms already. Over the past few months i have broken from the discipline necessary to write a full length piece. I would like to get back to that if there would be something that I thought I could contribute to an ongoing discussion in society. Most of what I've written is fluff, stories without any redeeming value other than brief character pyschs. I don't know why that isn't enough for me? Much of what passes for literature these days is no better and much of it is truly worse. Still, if I read a Pynchon or Fowles I feel my writing is of a caliber so far down the ladder of beauty that I despair of ever finding my own voice.

I might need my tongue with him, but certainly not my voice.

Pecs and abs to devour.

An easily swallowed stream of gold.

And an easily devoured erection sprouting from an easily devoured young man. Frank.

Interesting!

I'd do it, even though he needs a shave.

A small gallery of dick.