So I finally started to channel some of my meager creative energies into a story. It's about a guy who goes to purgatory. Picture a cross between Neal Gaiman and Dante Alghieri. It's probably derivative and crappy, but it's something to do to entertain myself. I guess that's about all there is to say right now. Not that anybody even bothers to read this, anyway. C'est la vie.

Am I really that much of a whiney bitch?

Sometimes I feel like a total parasite. I enjoy good music, good art, and good poetry, yet I am totally incapable of producing any of them myself. Thus, I am forced into the position of just leeching off of the talents of others. I really hate that about myself. I can't help but feel a tinge of jealousy towards my friends who are gifted thusly. I suppose I feel like a worthless fly that is drawn towards light, but is totally incapable of giving it off. I know I have gifts, and that there is a reason why I exist on this mortal coil, but damned if I could figure out what that purpose could be. I feel like Salieri in Amadeus, capable of recognizing genius, but utterly decrepit in comparison. This, more than anything else, causes me to get despondent.