Ungruntled 3.0: Relapse

I am old now; for the 67th time, I am circling the sun. My body is wearing out, bits and pieces of it working less well on an ever-accelerating basis. It's unpleasant to say the least, and it sends my mind down avenues I suppose are well-trodden by many of the others who have preceded me. For, like it or not, we all grow old and die. It's just not something we really accept until it can't be ignored any longer.

For much of my adult life, I aspired to be a writer. It's been a chronic condition, one that spawned multiple manuscripts, at least until my inner critic took to pointing at them and asking "How's that going for you?" I thought was cured.

Lately, as the world has become incrementally more bizarre, more choked with cerebral fertilizer, I've suffered a relapse.

So it is, Gentle Reader, that I welcome you to Ungruntled 3.0.

Consider it a symptom.