I’m at a juncture in my writing where I seriously think I need to stop it. The problem is basically for the most part I write violent shit and I don’t like it.

I’m tired of having likeable characters die in the most horrible ways. For chissakes, how many assaults, rapes, and murders have to be written before I go down to the local sporting goods store and buy a pistol to blow my diseased brain out of my head? I suppose I could call my new therapist, but what the fuck will she do?

I try to throw marshmallows, but bricks leave my hand.

I tried to start a sequel to 319 about the remaining four boys in the house. But, I threw a brick and hit one of the boys; and, then the last he was seen crying on his bed with his pants and underwear around his ankles with blood and shit smeared across his butt and on the bedspread. After the police were called, he was found stuffed in the chest freezer in the pantry, near death from hypothermia.

All my other choices for the next story are also chock full ’o nuts, bricks, knives, guns, homophobes, and every other evil I can think of.

So, once The Angel of Retribution has finished posting, I’m going to concentrate on raising our new puppy. Sara, another purebred German Shepherd imported from Germany will be arriving sometime around the end of July/beginning of August. Plus, I’ll return to trying to learn how to play jazz guitar. I have to buy a new (or, refurbished used) guitar, but that shouldn’t cost over $500.

I’ve got to go now because my attention whore (purebred German Shepherd), Nana, is begging to go out and chase cats out of the backyard.

Maybe, after discussing my situation with my therapist, I can think about going back to writing. Or, possibly, she’ll just tell me to give it up until I can get the evil out of my mind. (Therapists really do not like patients who get suicidal.)