It is mid September. One thirty in the morning. Two days ago, David Foster Wallace hung himself until he died. Inside his home. Alone. Sometimes, when a writer or musician ceases to exist as a going concern (weather by their death or by their irrelevance), I feel they gave the world everything they had to give. Not with DFW. He was a narcissist, but all great writers are. His fiction was postmodern in act but not postmodern in spirit. I loved his writing; I thought he would be an okay guy to chat about things with, someday.

He finished his first novel when he was 25. I finished my first novel when I was 22. His was good, of course. Mine... well.

These have been trying times, frustrating times. Too much free time. Struggling to find work again -- more accurately, struggling to find the courage to go though the whole rigmarole; the canvasing, the interviewing, the resume-making, et al. Everyone hates doing it, but they do it.

Five days of active socializing in a row last week. Marcus' birthday, Marcus' birthday grill, Jill's beer snobbing, my book clubbin', and trivia. I never do that. Had a pretty nasty cold, too. Made worse by the sometimes excessive drinking.

Learning to behave around new people in different ways than me in the past. Still frustrated when I percieve my personality like an outside observer. "Who is this guy?" I think, when I think of me. More important: why does it matter?

Of uptmost importance: why should I blog like this again? Why do I feel... compelled to do this? I need the outlet; I need to be judged; if I am to feel pity for myself, the world should know. It's embarrassing, and that embarassment keeps me from feeling bad about myself. Too much.

It took too long, but I did write about the Dreamcast. For the game blog. I need to force myself to post there; I need to force myself to post reasonable things there. Less than 6,000 words would be a good start. No one needs 6,000 blog post words. That's half a New Yorker article. Tim Rogers could get away with it, once. I don't know if he still can.

I am going to try to sleep. The cough is keeping me from succeeding, so far. But it can't hurt to try again.