Motivation eludes me. I know there are books on the subject; I could write one myself, with an afterword that stated, “Ha! Good Luck! If you needed to read this book, non-motivation is probably in your genes.” Of course, that would not be written because the book would not be written because of, well, go back and look at my very first sentence.

Where does this leave me? I would suspect it is not a good place, and that is unfortunate because, dontcha know, non-motivation will probably leave me right in it – -sort of like the lady whose body grew around a certain object in her bathroom. I know; disgusting; below AmeliaJake’s usual reference points.

I am actually chortling aloud at how low I have fallen. Maybe I can find an elevator, because, hey, you know, actually climbing stairs. It’s almost tempting to look around at the stuff on this level, but I did learn a lesson some years back that discourages that. Way back – decades back, long time ago, another galaxy, and so forth – I reasoned that if I were ever homeless I could go to jail and have my little cell and meals and reading material, and the occasional movie. Then I watched a documentary on a prison; do you know I saw inmates throwing food and bodily products through the bars at guards and other inmates walking by. I was stunned. Stunned. And the foul language, not to mention the bad grammar.

I realized dimples were probably not going to be an asset. It’s almost enough to motivate me to Plan B.