So yeah. Here we are as in olden days.
What a fucking year.
Love and sickness.
I feel a million pounds with lead and blood in my chest.
I'm in love with my girl and sometimes I get all Jim Morrison about it.
Yeah Jim Morrison about it, like I say things like "love my girl" and "yeah my girl is looking good". Stuff like that.
Of course that whole thing has paralyzed my ability to write moody, alcohol drivel about longing and wanting girls and being nervous and paranoid and lonely and depressed about girls who were too busy with whatever.
That's quite alright.
All that shit was boring anyway.
I mean I'm still nervous and paranoid and occasionally depressed.
But not about that shit.
No no no that column is checked off.
Now I get to work on the internal shit.
It's perspective and I'm new to it.
Nicolas Cage is pulling people out of a burning plane on tv.
And I'm wine drunk.
Sort of sick sort of drunk.
A new stack of books waiting to be read.
A new blue idea in my head I want to spill out one night in pages and pages of frantic electric nonsense.
I want it all down.
I have no idea how to exploit any of this.
But it's okay for now.
I don't have to worry bout things
In the new year.
We'll all be better off.
We'll all get around to it.
We'll all figure out where we went wrong.