I'm So Depressed I Can't Even Think of a Suitable Title

     Today’s my birthday and, as it’s typically been these past 11 years, so far it pretty much sucks. With the medical emergency of a loved one, the legal woes of another and money issues in my own household, my own kids forgetting it’s my birthday and, save for a couple of hundred fast and easy generic birthday greetings from strangers on Facebook who had to be reminded by Facebook it’s my birthday, it’s been just like any other day: Bleak.

     Right after New Year's, I’d started sending out book proposals for my new novel and am, of course, immediately getting hit with the inevitable form rejection letters from brain-dead literary agents and editors. In short, 2020 is not my year as I’d inanely hoped it’d be (Every New Year's I'm like Charlie fucking Brown with the football and say to myself, "This will be my year!" right before the Lucys of the world put me flat on my back). 

     True, Trump's Senate impeachment trial started today but that's cold comfort even to me.

     But one thing that can make my birthday a little less bleak is some book sales. Here's the link to my Amazon author page. I write thrillers, mainly historical thrillers, and every one of my books is $4.99 or less. So please help out a poor tired bastard who has nothing going for him today.