The Self Help Guide to Suicide is you pretending this blog post is not a cry for help

Life is like a box of chocolates. If the chocolates are the sad left over boxes of chocolate on sale for half price the day after Easter. I've already run out of material to post to my self help podcast, so I am thinking about starting to post new episodes to my old podcast The Surveillance Society. A podcast I think I will rename Big Brother Watch. That way I could just read you the headlines of all the privacy breaches and technology stories that are dooming our nation to become like a real life version of that George Orwell movie.

I am only writing because I read this post on copyblogger that gave me permission to write "less than perfect or crap blog posts." Of course copyblogger told me not to post them, but I did it anyway, because I like to break the rules. I was supposed to rewrite this, but I've edited a lot of the early content on this blog, and that got me nowhere with you. Just like when I called you Tara Reid.

I know comparing you to Tara Reid is going to piss you off because you only think of Tara Reid as the party girl slut who drank her way to a size 6, and you want me to imagine you as the fresh faced Tara that was a size 2 when she first became famous by making the movie American Pie. Frankly, I still think that Tara is hotter than you, and you should just take that as a compliment, because you don't get complimented that much.



I'm having a mid-life crisis. I woke up depressed today. I could tell you why I am depressed. It had something to do with a particular thing that could have happened that would have made me happy, but that thing didn't happen, but that's not really why I am not happy right now. I'm not happy right now because the moment I start to feel bad I begin to think about my life. When I think about my life I really get depressed, because I've got a lot of things to be depressed about, like I am 37.

At 37 you really only have about 20 good years left, and that's being optimistic. I spent the best part of my life drunk and slacking, so I don't even remember not doing all the stuff that must have been so important to me at the time that I was doing nothing.

My ex wife used to warn me that someday I would get old. My friend Card Shark loves to tell me that "time happens even if you don't make plans for it, so maybe you should make some plans." I suppose retirement would be better if I lived in a condo with a one of those old people scooters, but I just can't get excited about planning for my death. I don't see much difference in what I am not doing now, and what I won't be doing years from now with less hair and a bigger waist line.

Instead of thinking so much about myself, I I should be thinking of my poor readers who had hoped to find something funny here, or at least not a post this depressing. My problem is I can't make decisions. I don't know what I want from this blog. This blogs lack of focus, it's failure to grab a niche, to find a topic and ruthlessly exploit it, means it suffers from identity crisis the same way I do. Only identity crises are supposed to be over with by now, unless you want to extend your adolescence so that you never see death approaching, it just shows up at the doorstep one day while your taking a green shit.

I rode my bike to subway for lunch today. I awoke hungry and thirsty, but it took me two hours to decide to go and get lunch rather than reheat the burrito filling I ate last night. I rode the bike around in circles for a good 15 minutes trying to decide where to eat. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to read the paper and get free refills on my soda, because I was running out of soda at home, and biking to Circle K always brings with it some degree of risk.

I was reviewing some of the older blog posts, and it is funny how often I write the same joke about how fat chicks read this blog. It's also funny how after 500 posts I have covered basically every topic one can write about. I found a post where I mentioned I would prefer eating the placenta of Suri Cruise, to working. All that after I gave such shit to my good friend and blogger extraordinaire Freida Bee about eating her placenta, even though eating her placenta brought her tummy back into shape 8 years ago, and maybe somebody could pass that info to

Mila Jovovich.

Mila's pregnancy has so busted her that I'd pass up sex with the bitch, and I haven't been laid in three years. If you don't count the prostitutes, and I don't think you count prostitutes. Mila was a hot pregnant chick. The bad thing about having a pregnancy fetish is that a knocked up girl can't stay pregnant forever. The nine month breeding cycle is a fetish lovers countdown to end the relationship, because eventually they give birth, and then you have child support payments, and a busted body to look at, all the while telling her you still find her sexy even though the hood of her vagina is down at her knees.


I know the problem you have with this blog is you are never sure what you are going to get with it. Is it my blog or is Romius T's? Is he a character? Am I breaking character now? And is that ok? Is this blog some kind of cheesy celebrity gossip blog without much in terms of gossip and pictures? I can't decide either, the same way I can't decide what's for lunch. (So I decided to post the gossip and the pictures.) Don't even get me started on Netflix and how all those movie choices are preventing me from watching a movie till the end.

I'm supposed to be writing a book and this blog was supposed to help me hone my craft.
I was just hoping to improve my writing ability. I don't think I have much, because I don't use the blog to practice my writing. On occasion I remember not to use the passive voice, or remember to use spell check. But more often that naught I forget basic grammar and make no systematic attempt at correcting my writing.

I know I like to think of myself as creative. The people who feel sorry for me hand me over that label like some kind of atta boy merit badge, and I should be grateful that at least there are people out there that consider my feelings important enough to throw me a life jacket, because they notice I am drowning. But nobody likes watching a person drown, or at least most people don't, and that even applies to you sick fucks.

But I will make a distinction that I think I have made before, and that is between imaginative thinking and creative thinking. One needs imagination in order to write or do anything creative, but creativity is a kind of productive activity at least according to Eric Fromm.

Eric Fromm is a nice guy, but he convinced me that productivity of any other kind means selling out to the capitalist man. I am sure he would have been astounded by my corruption of his theories, but I read philosophical stuff to make me feel better, not to learn anything.

I know you'll have some advice to give me like "you could just start writing everyday." You could rewrite your stuff and practice and try to get better. Or you could keep a job like your mom and work there for 20 years with no benefits and not complain because you think you deserve it. You could finally get off your lazy ass and do something for a change, but we both know that advice isn't going to work, because I ain't doing any of that.

Maybe you were lucky enough to get volume 13 before I erased it and added volume 14. If not you could win this secret less cool version of volume 14 and a packet of country gravy if you get me famous. I forgot to change the title of the last post to the current "self help guide," but I wasn't going to record another version.