Whine alert
◊ Fine. I know nobody asked. I'm not doing OK. I'm doing badly and getting worse, and the blog's suffering. Everything's suffering. The only thing I'm at all good at recently is taking pictures, since that involves framing and exposing the Muse instead of hunting it down, catching it, pinning it to the ground by the neck and gutting it in hopes there'll be a couple decent turns of phrase inside.
Eating sucks. Sleeping sucks. I either never want to do them again or wake up every two days for enough food to make my stomach stop rumbling. I don't even want to look at my bikes. The only alleviation I usually have for a mood like this is taking the Camaro out for a long drive at night down 17 and going out to the water, but my dad still has a couple things to finish on it and a borrowed minivan just wouldn't be the same.
The Camaro's tape deck doesn't work, anyway.
Can it be spring again? Can it be summer? It doesn't feel like there are any seasons left that aren't ugly somehow, but at least if it were summer I could go in the water.
So, yeah. No lightweight stories about drinking and horsing around today. I can't take a drink without almost gagging. That's usually a sign that I should stay off the stuff, because if I stay with it, I'll fuckin' stay with it.
Holy fuck, my head hurts. If any of you believed even for a minute, ever, that I'm a strong or reasonable person ... ha. Fooled ya. Suckers.