Okay, just a quick look around ... yep! It's hell.

A lover of felines in Britain
With cats was unusually smitten;
She heard a tom yowl
While on his spring prowl -
In winter she gave birth to kittens.

Wrote that one in the shower. My wife assures me I do my best work with my clothes off - make of that what you will. I think that my nudity cuts into my broodity. It's hard to be melancholic around all that skin. In case you're wondering, I've noticed what a downer this blog is. Nothing inspires the windbag in me like a bit o' Teary Tom. I can play the violin of sorrow with the best of them. Is it in fact the smallest violin in the world? Most varieties of unhappiness are self-indulgences, but so is life. And maybe Jean-Claude is right. Perhaps art too is self-indulgence. Shakespeare didn't intend to serve the public good, did he? And thank G-D he didn't dedicate himself to feeding the poor or some such.

(Like the pseudo-Hebraic touch? I'm going to use YHWH next time, just to fuck with you.)

There once was on hombre from Spain
Who often used God's name in vain.
"Dios mio!" he'd cry
If you just tapped the guy.
If you pinched him, he'd do it again!

This reckless abuse of the Torah
Made God up above very sorah.
Our Father decreed
"Senor should pay heed:
'Swounds, I won't take no morah."