It happens on a regular basis: What am I going to write about?

I used to ask my brother when I lived with him, except I would switch it around by asking 'What are YOU going to write about?' Sometimes this helped. Sometimes not.

Now, I live with my fiancee, and I ask her 'What am I going to write about?' She doesn't know. I don't know. Nobody knows.

I tried to engage her in some political debate this morning. She bashed communism, even though she was a year and a half when the Berlin Wall fell. I asked her why she hated communism, considering she never really knew it. This made her mad, and she began accusing me of bitching too much about politics. Actually, she even extrapolated enough to say I bitch too much in general.

This made me think about it. Do I bitch too much? I'm not a big fan of communism, but there I was defending it and asking why she hated it. In the 1950s, I would have been black-listed or accused or shunned or whatever (as my fiancee would say), but now I was just having a Sunday morning conversation and it blew up in my face. KA-BOOM.

Somewhere, dead Lenin is laughing at me.

I complained about health care for a moment this morning. Mainly because I have no idea what any of it means. I don't know what side to be on because I don't know what any of it means. When they spoke of universal health care, it thought it meant simply that. Health care for all. Go to clinic when your sick, go to the E.R. when something breaks. They'll fix you up and send you on your way. I can't tell, but it doesn't sound like that's what will happen. I'd write more about it, but I don't know what I'm talking about. Who really does? How can you tell them from the ones who don't?

So what are you writing about? I'm at a loss.

Do I bitch too much? Shouldn't I be happy enough to live in a country where I can pay rent on a house, raise a family, and still voice my simple and ignorable opinion about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Do we need my simple and ignorable opinion? Don't we have plenty already?

We have so many mouths talking that they all start to sound the same. Talking points, taking sides, slander your enemies, protect your friends. Oops, there I go again. Talking bad about someone. I don't even know who. Negative, negative, negative. I wish I could stop.

I finished reading a book of short stories by Bukowski this week. I do most of my reading in the cab these days. The man told it how he wanted, and life was never so ugly and true. Through the work & toil & booze & fights & sex & horse race gambling & disdain for humanity, the words all made sense to me. The stories hit home. If anyone asked Bukowski what he was writing about, he would probably say 'Go to hell, fuck writing, you got anything to drink?'

And here I am, at a loss.

I used to think I was clever with words. Turning a phrase here or there. Some witty dialogue. Some simple lesson learned. Christ, I even thought people wanted to read my stuff. But they didn't. They read out of obligation. Freedom of speech? I suppose so. But hasn't it all been said already?

So it's cold outside, and I'm in my rented house for as long as I can keep paying the bills. The gas heater and electricity keeps it warm for a monthly fee. The visual entertainment is available at the end of the cable, and yes, I do have something to drink for you, Buk. Thanksgiving leftovers rest in my belly, and a few cups of coffee keep me awake. What are going to write about? What do you want me to write? What should I write? What will make an impact?

I don't want to bitch. I don't want to be a Grinch. I don't want to annoy. I don't want to be negative. I don't want to knit-pick. I don't want to be this way.

Then I guess there's nothing I really need to say. Carry on.

Chris Jungle is suffering from a nasty case of self-examination.