somewhere there is a wagon

I own a large package. It is not my dick. It is a box of self-destruction. It manifests itself in areas of addiction: booze, women, writing, music, using people for my own happiness. I make horrible decisions. I say horrible things. I look out for only myself. And that is me. There is no hidden aspect of my life. Ask me, and I will tell you. I don't worry about coming off as a sinner or a saint, because I am usually both. I just worry about living. It gets me into trouble. It makes me feel alive.

I have spent the last week thinking about the same thing. How to approach it. How to handle it. How to respond to it without being crazy. But I am crazy. And it is wearing me down. And I think they know it. And I think I am playing into their hands.

I owe bobb a mix, it will show up tomorrow.