In an attempt to try and vent my current frustrations with the direction my life has been taking recently I've been trying my hand at doing some writing, something I haven't done a lot of since my adolescence, which ended with the realisation that the phrase "everyone has a novel in them" was missing the word "bad".

Aside: I always hate it when I think of life having "direction", like I'm a case study in a self-help manual (if that is the case it's definitely *not* on the bestsellers list. "How to feel insecure about your position and future in 3 easy steps!", only 15.99 from Amazon.)

Even in writing, though, things are not going too well. Given my habitual mangling of the English language whenever I speak, maybe I shouldn't be surprised when it is rendered manifest in print, making everything I type look like I've got a virulent form of dyslexia and that has infected my grammar and punctuation. Plus the fact that I've spent the past five years writing reports in a "scientific" fashion, which is a euphemistic way of saying that all of my writing in the past five years has been mostly set at a primary school "and then I...and then I...and then I..." level.

Which leads to an ever-increasing feeling of despair whenever I sit in front of my computer screen and type only to have my mind race with doubts about my job, my life, and the sad, terrible conclusion that if I gave it up to do something else, then I'd be stuck asking people if they wanted to go large on their fries.

It's strange - the more you try to forget about things and lose yourself, then the more concentrated in your mind it becomes.

Which is a conclusion as unconnected to the subject as I can think of, so sorry if you feel misled. It turns out I've just been venting spleen all along.

Bourne