I’ve been smushed under the writer’s block for some time, which might explain the long series of Sunday entries. But the midnight hour of the seventh day approached so here goes:

It dawned on me this weekend that I could make a living of telling people the stuff they don’t want to hear. I should hang a shingle.

Need to pass news of someone’s passing, or of some similar family disaster, but you just don’t know how? Good news– I do.

Want to break up with your significant other? Things getting too serious too fast? Things not getting serious at all? Your S.O. can’t spell “CAT” correctly or perhaps he or she is too nerdy for you? Work with someone who dresses poorly or smells like beets and he needs to be told? Want to tell off your boss, or feed some information to him/her without getting canned? Here’s my card.

That’s right: for a small fee I will break the bad news to those who need to hear it most. I will take the emotional blowback. I will take the ill-conceived death threats. I will undergo the barrage of insulting comments from your friends, coworkers, or bosses. And for a tiny additional fee, you can keep your name totally out of it, and reduce the possibility of personal or professional payback.

I figure that if you’re good at something– in my case, I’m good at not getting too wrapped up in the emotions of the situation– you should try to make that talent work for you. I think there’s some real money to be made here.

…

Here’s how exhausted I am. In the middle of this short entry, I wrote the following sentence:

“I’ve been told an inordinate number of times that my road leads to I-10, and that there aren’t that many useful turnouts to get around the colic cats, and diminish if not eliminate the possibly of taking 12 years.”

No idea. Gotta get to sleep.