I have sat here for over an hour staring at this screen trying to think of something interesting to write about. I was unsuccessful.
So then I thought I’d try to think of something less interesting to write about. Again, I came up empty handed.
I suppose I could write about something that is downright uninteresting to write about, guaranteed to be as dull as dishwater and half as entertaining. But I believe that is called “my journal”, and I still haven’t gotten over my fear of posting anything too personal on this here internet contraption. I don’t know why I worry, though. As dull as my life is, I’m pretty darn sure I don’t have to worry about identity thieves or stalkers. Such miscreants would no doubt take up a collection and give it to me, saying, “Here, Dude. Go buy yourself a life.”
So what is left to the man who’s life is too dull to write about? And now you know how and why fiction was created.
