So every cunt has a book in them, right? And a beating heart. Today I feel that I have finished my one book and it is comprised of 225 bleugh posts. It seems to me that despite the hair-reducing excitements, the many fascinating minutiae of pneumonia and the endless charm of my children in the week past, I have no desire to describe these doings.
I wrote and rewrote that last sentence five times, and to me it still looks and sounds like so much sludgy shit.
Once I had a resting heart rate of 38. It's in the fifties now. And my newest life theory tells me that we all have a numeral scrawled somewhere on our souls and this digit denotes the number of beats that we bought way back there at our births. I'm using mine up too fast, with my smoking and drinking and worrying. What do I have to worry about? That I'm running out of words, running out of beats. And I know that it's all because I give a fuck. I remember when I didn't and I want that back. Giving a fuck fucking sucks. Having a care is crap.
But stick around, or drop back later. I'm going to go write up the barber business. It won't be funny because I desperately want it to be so, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'm fucked if I know why.