What Else Is There?

After my near outing, I've gone back to voluntary seclusion.  I've had four models cancel on me within hours of the shoot this past week.  I am tired of such things.  It is accepted now that people will send some electronic message moments before they don't do what they have committed to doing. I am as tired of that as I am people who do not read.  Which means I'm tired of most people.

Even the cat has pissed me off.  Literally.  She peed on my backpack for some reason.  Maybe it is because I had to buy a different litter for her cat box.  I don't know.  Nor care just now. Out the door with her.  That is where she can stay.  So I am more secluded than ever.

To bed at ten, up at four-thirty.  I can't even manage eight hours of sleep.  I'll nap.  I'll catch up.

I think, though, that I'll quit writing about myself for awhile.  It is sounding too pathetic.  An ex once told me that I tell too much.  People will seize on it and take advantage.

And she was right.

Maybe I'll write about sports.  Everywhere I go, people have televisions with sporting events.  Sometimes the volume is up and I hear the inane prattling of grown men about. . . I don't know what it is about.  They talk very loudly and become overly animated.  They insult one another with sarcasm.  And this will be about some college kid who plays football as if he might be the next coming.  I look at these men and try to imagine being around them for any length of time.  But they have friends and wives and children and money and people take them very seriously or at least don't treat them as if they are in serious need.

But having written that, I realize that opining is still writing about one's self.  How to get away from it?