My English Professor says that I am not that good of a writer. I should have known by all the garbage I lugged around with me. Espousing it here and there. Trying to lighten the load. It's better to accept it I suppose. Not everything can be good. It'***** and miss. If I throw enough **** at the wall some of it is bound to stick. He said, "You can only be as good as the stuff you read." Maybe I should read more good ****. Any suggestions? I like to read Bukowski. He says Bukowski is trash. I really don't care what he thinks. I'll be happy with a C. And hopefully, a degree one day. He reads The New York Times and rambles on about politics. I read trash and I don't talk very much. I'm too busy thinking about liquor and women. Usually one at a time or one in particular. I work, go to school and come home to play mediocre superdad or distant husband. I wonder if I'll get that degree. I wonder if I even really care anymore. And if not, then why? Maybe there is some fateful reason for all this. That's what people like to say, "Everything happens for a reason." It sure feels good to think like that. Seems that way.