One of the reasons I started this blog was to put pressure on myself to write more often, attempt to create a habit, and maybe work on that novel that's been percolating around in my head for twenty plus years. They say a writer writes every day. I guess a proper corollary for that would be that middle-aged men with aspirations of authorship who are too fucking lazy to put ass in seat for an hour per day, despite the best of intentions, are never going to be writers. A glance at my Bob's Transmission and Automotive Service calendar shows that this is my first post under the sexy Heather Locklear-ish gaze of Miss May, and it forces my acceptance of the simple truth. And I do accept it. I'm probably never going to write that novel and it doesn't even hurt that much to admit it. Probably because it's far from the first time I have disappointed myself. I'm really more disappointed that I'm not disappointed than anything. The fact that I can live with being a mediocre and intermittent blogger in a sea of mediocre and intermittent bloggers is just another example of my life-long lack of ambition. It fits into the overall structure of the person I've constructed from the life that I have lived. A life of wasted potentialities begets many hobbies and no professions.