Dull as dry toast

It may seem that I've become quite a dullard. I feel it, anyhow - tired, complacent, passive, and all too easily amused. My days blend into each other, the elements similar: keep Ma company, go to work, do my chores - shopping, cooking, cleaning, for Ma and for myself... most nights when I get home I haven't two ideas to rub together to generate the slightest spark based on which I might write; I'm lucky if, after hours of watching the mostly easily-digested commercial fare that Mom likes, I have the stamina for an exploitation film, let alone a serious piece of cinema. And I begin to question - given the lack of significant monetary rewards, the shit that gets done to my writing by various editors, and the amount of time and effort the work takes - of transcribing, editing, re-reading, revising, and so forth, to say nothing of pitching articles, contacting interview subjects, and negotiating sometimes rude and weirdly unappreciative bands, publicists and record label people, a couple of whom have been right assholes - whether it really is worth the effort; the compulsion to do it that I once felt is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a sigh, a shrug, a slump and a turning away. This depresses me a bit - because it seems all too similar to a suburban lowering of standards, a settling into middle-aged mediocrity that I've been rebelling against since I was a teen... laziness, apathy... a concern for what's on TV... but it seems to be the trip I'm on, at least at the moment. And on some level, I don't really care.

Fuck, but... fuck it. Maybe it will prove temporary - a brief slump before a productive period. Who knows...