Back.

I was inches away from deleting my blog but in the end I decided not to. Instead I only mutilated it. Did you see?

Why? I don't know. I don't have a whole lot to say.

I'm... not. I don't know.

Anyway, the admission test for college approaches. Its publication is scheduled for next Sunday. I'll register, but I still don't know if I'll be able to do it. I mean, this is our first month with the intended budget, sort of a tryout, and it's risible. Hilarious. We can't pay the rent, we can't pay the phone, we can't pay the bus. We have eaten, but not much more. Unless my mother finally wins the lottery I don't think I'll make it.

Besides, I don't know how much longer I can put up with my job. I hate to say it, it's something a quitter, a loser, a whiner would say, but I just can't anymore. I hate doing it, I hate the people who surround me, I hate it all. I can't see myself going through one year, let alone four, of working at this and still not being able of making ends meet. Belendor's project has been delayed, again, just when we were both thinking we could rely on his earnings for some time. Tough titty, we can't. Suckers.

And then, just as I was sitting at the office today and struggling to find My Happy Place while all the people in the office talked their usually shitty talk all around me, inspiration hit me: I should become a novelist. Not a real novelist, not a second DeLilo (ha! I barely can read him), but, I thought, something in the line of Sydney Sheldon. My mom loves those stupid books and therefore, as the bookthirsty kid I used to be, I got to read a good lot of them as a child. Even at ten I found them hilarious. I remember when I finished one of them when I was eleven or so, I thought 'I could do much better than this'.

I should do it. Damn, if Corín Tellado can, I should also be up to it. And I'd earn some bucks.