I got heavier. Since I rarely re-read what I’ve already finished, written, edited, agonized over, sent out, and argued in defense of, I can usually half recover from my aggravations.

But suddenly the gamble of attacking messengers arises. Writers, journalists, news anchors, commentators, TV anchors who are always blonde from long hair to short hair, and field reporters who mispronounce the name Kabul and Iran – both are where I live. From where?

Why are street vendors who sell hot dogs for a month and can’t even read the ads stuck on the cars they rent, suddenly knocking on the door of this profession?

word count

When the deadline arrives, my immediate reaction is a throbbing headache that lasts all day long. Then the mail arrives that was supposed to arrive last week, so you open that first in case it contains a check. Overdue bills, which I probably paid in the first place. Next is usually a torn page that a fan thinks I should deal with. Some days it’s so confusing that I even answer my maid’s mail – hers is from Guyana.

Okay, so we’re not all Ernest Hemingway—but he probably couldn’t create a masterpiece while suffering through a computer that stopped working, a phone that disconnected, an incident on deadline, a Verizon that pulled out wires. Making perfect eggs in three minutes, quieting my dog, plus studying the spelling of Ukraine’s Dnistrovsky and Bklshivtsi districts. So forget Podilski and Shpola.

Then there is that moment when people answer my calls. The phones of friends, enemies and strangers I know do not even ring. With a little luck, your life might manage to make it through a whole day.

By the way, WABC radio, where I am, needs an offer. Right now, in the middle of my disintegration process, they want me to take about six minutes to explain Tesla. Tesla’s? Until 20 minutes ago I thought P. Diddy only had this. Tesla’s? Then a top-notch magazine comes along and demands my opinion on Russian, Chinese, and Iranian interference in this election. I tell them it’s Washington DC that’s interfering with this election. Then they call me ‘stupid’ and hang up on me.

well welded

Grumpy, then I do the smart thing. Hurry up sharpening pencils I no longer need. I call my brilliant friend for information on some important political issues. He is very smart. However, since he is also very unemployed, he hangs up the phone. The next smart thing is to finish a sandwich. After all this necessary preparation, I was exhausted. I also need to buy a sweater since the weather is getting colder.

Our house superintendent suddenly lets off steam in a frenzied burst of energy. Then I have to fly around with the windows open and weigh in on all my real documents. There’s nothing on them, but I don’t want them to disappear just in case. And because they contain valuable information about Napoleon – just in case a question is suddenly asked about the number of flax threads on Elba.

Such a beautiful print

Theoretically, upper-class journalists live the immigrant life. Probably because slick magazines and unemployed writers think reporters are for the birds. But mostly these slick magazines that pee on us actually want to know whose sheets J.Lo is under this week or which Krapdashian has opened a new bra lifter.

So why are there new stories about how useless reporters are, and why do we need these people in the field so we know who does what and how often they do it? If we want to know who did what to whom and how often, we just have to ask spies from Russia, China, Iran, Palestine and the Democratic center. Better yet, they should have microphones, detectives, talking parrots, corded phones, smart headsets, and lip readers to tell civilization that something is going on in the White House. Because Them To know.

Push AI. Today’s eyes are devices in slits.