The Meaning of Life is in a Bun with Chili Sauce

Here we go, it's already spring and well into the decade of lose. And so far it's been a dandy one, too. Let's see, so far:

1. My father has been diagnosed as "terminal", the radiation didn't work, and was basically sent home to die within 6 months. Give or take a few months.

2. The latest stud moved in with the ex and is now my daughters surrogate father when i'm not around. The ex is sure teaching my daugher how to be a slut very well.

3. Work sucks.

And it's only been a few months. Life begins at 50!! 50 is the new 30!! Bullshit.

I've officially dropped out. I'm done, with everything. I just don't bother anymore.
Trying to date, be happy, have interests, i'm through with it all.

About the only thing worth getting up for nowadays is a good hot dog. See the photo. In fact, i'd go so far as to conclude that I have indeed found the meaning of life. That's all the happiness there is, or ever will be. A fucking hot dog.

I can't even keep up with listening to new tunes. I've got about 5 albums haven't even sampled yet, including "Jerusalem", Stray's "Suicide", and the new Pentagram "Last Rites". Even the music doesn't provide solace or salvation anymore.