Where the hell is my shirt?
... and where the hell is my scotch?
Found shirt
found scotch.
We're ready for this entry.
Well... plan A is quickly becoming plan B.
A lot of places.
*scratches his head contemplatively*
My dog is bleeding out of her hoo hoo again, right on schedule.
I was pretending like if I ignored it, it wouldn't happen, but here we are.
I've been cut open before.
I've had sutures removed, I really wouldn't recommend it, nor wish it even on a dog... but I can't have puppies in this house, with this budget, right now- probably not ever.
I'm dehydrated, half in the grave, and working on some concepts with my brother.
It's about all that's keeping me together.
I have no french speaking creole tart to come home to.
No brilliant talkative well-adjusted artistic son.
No pile of money to rest my head comfortabley on.
I'm just some displaced
almost talented
rather alchoholic
rockstar chef/
wandering poet of justice.
Maybe I fell down the drain.
I can either ride this bad deal out for a masters I'm not sure on how to use, that I might not even want to see through, for a chance to make... money?
Seriously
wait
wait
Plan A was always to write, cook, and rule.
So what the fuck am I doing anything else for?
To pay the bills?
To put food on the table?
Fuck all that.