The Commies are after our body fluids, Mandrake!

I fear that the older I get, the more I'm becoming like the body fluids man out of old Dr. Strangelove, "Body fluids, body fluids, Mandrake. There is a Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious
bodily fluids, Colonel.
"We must preserve out body fluids. I have to be like a Commie...Ever see a commie drink water, Mandrake?" That's because he's preserving his body fluids."

Well, you can immediately see that I am completely sane, like General Jack D. Ripper, who would not even add tap water to his vodka for mix. Gotta preserve our body fluids, Mandrake. Booga-booga!

Actually, it's more prosaic than that.

Even though retired, I sometimes take on projects way too big for me, like editing somebody's thousand- page novel, and then kidding myself, as to being able to could actally finish the job in a weekend.
So I've got to sort of hoard my energy like a miser. Heh. Can't lose those mental fluids.
Seriously though, I suddenly seem to have more work than I can handle--and I'm supposed to be retired....And I do most of it for a song (no wonder former wifey said I had no business head!)...It's just that I love torturing and arranging words. There is probably a diagnosis of the condition--enough that one is a word freak, that is to say a writer. And we are all freaks.
To reverse the condition all our influences would have to be taken apart, even our addiction, probably to that consistent bestseller, the Bible.... Like you'd have to apply some common sense -- Thirty-something Jeshua never sticks to his trade, doesn't marry Martha, wants to become a revolutionary from the building trades. He rattles the establishment. As in Palestine of old, he probably could not make it in America today. He might end up getting offed!

So not having any particular messianic tendencies (at least I think I don't), I gotta preserve at least, my mental body fluids.

So I'm taking a little time off.
Editing a thousand-page novel is a Herculean task, perhaps too herculean for my narrow shoulders, but hell, the blogger must monlight or starve.
Why does one ever become a professional writer, why, why, why?
...Because of too much success in your twenties.
You thought you could keep it up forever, you thought you could have eternal life as a writer.

Seriously, what did you expect. Eternal life?

Oh the cons of the ages. And we con ourselves into thinking we can make a conistent living as writers.
Would have been better of as evangelists, probably.

Turn on the TV late at night and you'd think Jesus is still alive as you and me.

And the preachers seem nuttier than Gen. Jack D. Ripper.

De Debbil is after out body fluids, Mandrake.

And I think I'm losing my mind as well. :)