I’m really lacking in the “motivation” department.
Not in general – I have plenty of motivation in most areas of my life. We’re jamming on all cylinders at work, we had a record-breaking year with Spicy or Mild, I’m level 126 on Defender of Texel. I’m putting together the framework for the next big mobile game, I’ve read more in the last two or three months than I have in a long time (including Ender’s Game – good read) and although my calves, quads, pecs, upper abs, lower abs, middle abs, internal abs, external abs and any other muscle groups I might have missed hate me I’m in the midst of Insanity to get myself back in some vestige of shape by the time beach volleyball season rolls around again and I make my home out at Volleyball Beach.
But unfortunately when it comes to The Paul Gillespie Experience it seems to fall further back on the list of things to do. I just can’t seem to find anything to write about – to the point that I’m writing about not knowing what to write about. If that’s not a subliminal cry for help I don’t know what is.
But let me take it a step further – I’ll actually explicitly cry for help. Or at least ask for it. Left to my own devices it could be a day, a week or even a month before something more insightful/entertaining/Pauly-ish than “I Hate Taxes” appears on these pages (but for the record: I do, with a passion). But if there’s something you’re interested in let me know; I’m always up for writing on a topic if someone can push me through that whole writer’s block block.
For now, though, I’m going to go glare at the obnoxious white fluffy stuff falling from the sky. I’ve tired of the whole concept of snow these days; give me seventy and sunny so I can go dig my feet in the soft sand at Volleyball Beach.by