It's occurred to me that I probably shouldn't say this...

But when have I ever adhered to convention or regulations?

I've stayed home all day, smoking weed, drinking wine, and eating pot brownies and spaghetti laced with special mushrooms. All this after fucking most of the morning away and being visited by a good friend who shall remain nameless. Good friends will do that: come to your house after conveniently forgetting you've existed for the past three years, only to inundate you with news about all the men you used to fuck and all the yummy illicit goodies you can buy from their new dealer. But I digress... The fact is, I've been a sloth all day, listening to music, reading articles on nerve.com, and generally wasting away my day whilst feeling artistic - and when I say "artistic," what I mean is "eccentric."

I've written twenty pages for my creative writing class while under the influence, and now that the effects are slowly passing, I want to be productive. There are papers to write, orphans to teach, money to make. I'm thinking about my artistic endeavors and realizing that I could always play the "damaged beyond repair card." You know what that is, right? That's when a creative person - let's say, a writer - is good at their craft, proficient and all that, but the reason that people continue to read their work is because it's like watching a trainwreck unfold before your eyes. You peer into their psyche and feel - what? grateful? hopeful? disgusted? alive? - because you realize that you may or may relate to them, but you are definitely not so screwed up in the head as to share your general screwed-upedness with the masses.

I can feel myself slipping into manic mode. Pretty soon, no one's gonna see me/hear from me except on-stage and on-line. At least, that's the way it used to be, when I needed to digest a little life. Right now, I'm struggling not to revert to outdated ways while hanging on to my sense of self...

Fuck this. My keyboard is sticking and I need to write papers...

End.