My terms have expanded. Here I am.

As Charlie, I’m required to behave as he would. He is a young writer entering grad school this fall; my superiors have determined that he would be writing in a blog. They haven’t specified how often I need update it or whether or not it needs be a public blog, but writers have blogs. Even writers who are almost 26 years old and haven’t published anything have blogs.

I’m tiring of this act, but I’m guaranteed a significant paycheck at its end. I’m not allowed to disclose the terms beyond this.

Thankfully I don’t have to write long entries.

I don’t know what I want from writing a blog. Obviously I just want a paycheck, but that’s not an attitude that will get me a paycheck. I have to be able to tolerate it, right? I guess I’ll just write about whatever I feel like. I’ll probably make fun of life as this Charlie dude sometimes–’cause it’s a lot of fun–but maybe I’ll make fun of crap I have to read, laugh myself into a stupor at things I have to write, and generally complain about existence as him. I’m allowed only few moments to act as myself, so I might as well take advantage of this to say whatever I want.

Here’s a picture I took. Slimy.

I remember when I took this picture. I was camping; this is something I have to enjoy–that is, something I have to do. I was on a hike as part of that trip and found this area in the water where all this gook had collected. I’m supposed to be indulgent in minuscule details, so I took a few pictures like this. I guess those are the things you do when you’re camping, right? I don’t know. I remember before this started my idea of camping was in one of those huge campers. I had one, all my sisters had one, and my parents had their own, too. I didn’t have to see any of them, I could throw garbage at my servants, and we parked in front of a nice view. I missed my airport, though, so I never went camping again–until I started having to be this low-income writer guy. Then I took pictures of slime.