So I haven’t written, just written, in a long time. It is linked to an agenda or a deadline or fucking email chain long enough to make my aneurysm act up. Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep by dear lord our father go to sleep. Reading a book about a man that lives in the sky or the woods, or perhaps both, and wreaks havoc upon this fearful little town. He steals children. And hurts kills them. It was a gift, the book that is. I was told it would be dark. The imagery is quite vivid and almost lovely. I’m told the author is mentally insane or something. I have to stop reading it before bed.

It does make me wonder. If some crazy guy can write a novel that people buy with real money, why can’t I? Here I am wasting my days away embedding videos and correcting commas and making sure that I remember to eat. Lame. J.K. Rowling wrote an epic adventure on a bunch of napkins starving away. That means my saltines and I can regurgitate a bestseller. Or at least a decent cult following. Maybe something really misunderstood or ahead of its time. I’m not picky.

But don’t get me wrong. These times are exciting. The world is teetering on the brink of something disastrous, perilous, an axis tipped too close to a child holding a flame. It’s downright hyperbolic as birds fall dead from the skies. So we can only wonder how to pick the lesser of great evils while maintaining some type of normalcy. Dramatic irony is destroying the status quo one swift kick at a time. Because I’m mad as hell, and I know that we do not go alone into that good night.