The combination of extensive quantities of musical wonder pouring deep into my essence, a mild hangover, too much coffee, and some kind of nicotine withdrawal are giving me the bitch-twitches. I feel I should gel my hair into an unflattering fringe.
I am as flighty and terrified as a hummingbird on acid. My metabolism is slower, so it takes longer to leave my system. I am, however, free from a lot of baggage I once carried upon my head. I am enjoying this while at the same time I am scared. I am teetering on the brink of feeling OK. I appear to be writing in a self-absorbed stream of consciousness. I should go back on livejournal. Last night I met girls I used to fancy, and they bored me, it was petty but I had to exorcise teenage inadequacies. I'm probably going to make it worse today. I need to wash. I need to run. I might just retreat. I might not. Maybe you'll see me there.
Much more importantly, I had a fun concept, a Jamie-Hewletty vision from Slumdog, which I will fold into a future rhetorical enterprise. The world needs more fat men on scooters with sticks.
I need to write more. I need to get out more. I need a new job. All good things come to those who make the fucking effort.