Okay. I'm exaggerating. It weren't that bad. I swears.
2010 just started crappy, with my dad dying in January. Mind you, the old coot lived way longer than he should have. It's just, you know: He was my dad. Sure, he wasn't up for the "World's Greatest Dad" award. It's just, you know: He was my dad.
And then there's the fact that I was writing a play about my dad in his cooterage. A comedy. His dying went and put a damper on the play. The bastard. Can you believe he did that to me? Went and died while I was making his life make people laugh? (Please note: I am fully aware that I am sealing my own special place in hell by writing these words and those words.) In 2010, I've written all of one scene of that damned play. Okay, maybe two. But not much more. Since 2002, I've finished a play every other year. Until now. Because instead of writing, this year I've opted to watch the telly and play on the puter. 2010, the year of doing too much and doing nothing at all. (And whose fault is that, missy? You can't blame everything on the old coot. Did he put that remote in your hand? Make you obsessively update FaceBook? I don't think so. (Oh great. Now my mom is in my head. And I can't believe my mom called him the old coot! ))
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