Its sunday and i’m still recovering from alcohol-related pain which was induced as a result of friday night poker with co-workers. Long story short, I felt ashamed, embarrassed, yada, yada, yada.
Naturally, I was going to type up a post on the pointlessness of feeling shame when jackasses like Berlusconi can get away with murder. On the scale of what I did compared to what Berlusconi did, I shouldn’t even feel the slightest twinge of guilt. I’m cursed by my own conscious.
I spent the last two days writing my next blogpost. It was epic. A fulsome meditation on the evils of power; a compare and contrast between the choices and temptations proferred to the upper class vs. the upper middle class to which I aspire. Dare I say this post could’ve triggered epiphanies in those readers lucky enough to feast their eyes on my writing.
Instead, Zolltan decided to put a blogpost up on the great GQ article on Berlusconi which was to be a large reference point, and now my post feels like my sense of self-regard, i.e. cheapened and not worth showing to the world.
There you have it. I’ve decided to withhold my writing from you. Yes you, Internet. I’m talking to you.