Time is running short, so I'd best get this done before, you know, the unspeakable happens.
The postdates indicate that for quite some while, I've been reticent, in a writing sense. Probably a word for that, but I'm much too busy to look it up.
Here's why: I'm trying to kill myself with journalism. It's a blunt, ineffective weapon, but over time, I'm positive the method will work. It's a good bet I will die with a pen in my hand (or most likely hunched over a dirty keyboard, a half-empty cup of stale coffee spilled on the scattered papers of my desk, perhaps some vomit leaking from the corner of my mouth.)
I hope the words on the monitor will be clever, like Hunter S. Thompson's last communique, typewritten and centered on the page: counselor.
Likely, though, it will read something like: The city council will decide the matter at an upcoming meeting. Or maybe it will be these words. A letter to no one, that says nothing.
But, before I go, I'd just like to tell all those journalism links on "Wordicus: the blog" to please go fuck themselves. I've had very litte fun the last couple of years, and I honestly believe those damn links, or the profession that spawned them, are at fault.
So please, fuck off. All of you.