On TV

What the hell kind of writer is it that doesn't write? I've asked this question before; I have yet to receive or think up a good answer. Hell, any answer would be nice at this juncture. Somewhere along the way I mislaid my creative willpower, and I lack the energy to go look for it. I'm less than happy about this revolting predicament. I do, however, tend to write a great many lamentative pieces such as this one. I'm not a writer, I'm a whiner. Maybe I need to spend more quality time with the typewriter and less time with the bottle. Maybe I should spend less time just thinking my thoughts and spend more time writing them down. Maybe I should, maybe I need to, maybe this, maybe that, what the fuck is up with maybe? Precursor to apathy - the great destroyer of action and creativity. Maybe is killing me. So subtle yet so completely debilitating. They should develop maybe weapons - bombs that don't actually kill anyone, just render them useless and uncaring. Oh, wait. They already have: it's called television. The cathode ray narcotic of the twentieth century - our great achievement gone hopelessly wrong. Bombarded daily by the Frankensteins of MTV and inane sitcoms we eke out our miserable existences working jobs so we can afford to live in little boxes watching little boxes. What a sinister world we have creadted. What passive drones we have become. What a pathetic excuse to give for not writing.