wicked pepper steak


we’ve got 8 glasses of water with lemon daily, plenty of klonopin, netflix and baseball for comedown, american spirits in the fridge for emergency freakdowns, it’s time to go back to book jail.  hit it.

there may be days where i don’t talk to a single person as i finish Loud Pictures, a working title that has survived a year of reporting and drafting and doubt to become an actual title. i will be writing here as a means to communicate.  i don’t know, maybe with nobody, maybe with you, but just as a flare to let people know i haven’t moved to Paris or died or died in Paris.   i don’t care too much that I can’t really afford to write for free.  i need to do this for the time being.   maybe it wont become a daily thing.   maybe it will be a twice daily thing, who knows.   i’ve made promises and broken them before.   but i’m back blogging or whatever they call it now.   i did it years ago for my old employer when there was no word for it and now I don’t even care what the word for it is.  i just want to emerge with a good book and sane and i can’t afford talk therapy, time wise or financially.   I like this better anyway.   my blog.  a brisk walk along the river and that weird sensory deprivation tank that is book jail.   my laptop is propped up on about six old copies of sight and sound and film comment and I think I’m facing south.   maybe west.   here we go…

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