I'd like to thank the one reader from each of these countries. It's a lonely feeling, isn't it? Reading this blog, I mean. It's hard to believe this planet is bulging at the seams with 7 billion people when you sit down to read this blog.
You'd think you were on Uranus. Or in a lineup to hear Rubio speak about how he went from the son of poor Cuban immigrants to plus size hand model.
I use to have readers from Mexico, but taking a card from Mr. Trump's deck, I built a big shiny firewall to keep them out. Way too hard to climb over and read my articles. Rapists and drug dealers are not welcome here.
It's too bad reading this blog can't be a shared experience.
"Hey, what did you think of Helloooo Newman's take on the U.S. election?"
"Quiet, my nails are drying."
At home, I often get massive, rowdy crowds of one or two people swarming me, asking me questions about my creative process.
What inspires you?
Well, usually it's the hard work of other writers who I steal from.
Why do you write, Paul?
Boredom is usually the answer for that one. Lack of full employment is another. Mostly boredom.
I just read somewhere that they scanned Shakespeare's grave and his skull is missing. That's pretty ironic.
"Alas poor Shakespeare, I knew him well. In High School. Where I failed 5 years in a row."
I wonder if someone will steal my skull. I hope it's not completely empty, like it is now. I hope, at least, it's full of dirt.
