I’ve got to find a smooth, literary way to slip this in. I’ve got to make sure this is as cerebral as my few frequent readers have come to expect. If I’m ever going to rise to the level of a professional writer, I need to find literary devices to make the following statement seem less abrasive and more palatable for the occasional reader. Okay, here we go:
Fuck this shit.
There we go. Mood complete. Silliness vanquished. Inspiration returning.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still one messed up muchacho, but I’m back in a good frame of mind. I credit some battles of wit with a couple of people I know, some sideways streak lightning over Pickens County, and an inspiring and innovative pep talk I received last night.
Friday appearing so suddenly has helped, too. Some people don’t get Fridays. I do.
More on my return from Planet Crackpot later. For now, take off your shoes and rub your toes in the grass. Walk like a five year old pretending he’s six. Listen to a kid talk. Hold a puppy for a while. Smile for a couple of days.