while the bills are piling up

I keep thinking about writing.

But I have nothing to say.

Everything is empty.

Except for my stomach.

It is full of booze.

I'll remain drunk and distracted until it matters, til I need to fix something.

The last few months turned out to be pretty hard. And I didn't handle them the way I expected to. A lot of my support systems didn't feel like showing up; or they just talked shit.

I'll stay here, in my corner of a valley, drinking, whatever, and trying to forget how I got railroaded by someone and left for dead by someone else.

How about this, for a middle road?

I'll go out, collect a bunch of stories, and someone can laugh, and someone can shake their head and someone else can scoff.

Perfect.

Fuck it.