Post Serial

Two types of wine. One before nap, one after. Also, coffee after dark. Lots of cheese, both the Tillamook persuasion and the cream kind. Records. The Black Keys, Banner Pilot, even Arcade Fire. Working on a new story that is close to home, not about home, not about me, not exactly, but it is the taco bell of stories, or rather my stories are taco bell-ish. Each item on the menu is very similar to other items on the menu. This story has a mash-up mix-up of them all, I suppose. I suppose a lot lately. Also sigh a lot.

I get sad when I grocery shop. I avoid it. I get sad at cereals like Koala Crisp, and Cafe Yum sauce, and I cannot even utter the phrase "taco night" without a pang and a stab and a clench. As a result, I either don't eat or I eat out. I have lost fifteen pounds this year and I'm out of money.  I avoid songs by Kurt Vile, Seapony, Gaslight Anthem, and determined that even thinking about Sunny In Philadelphia makes me sad. And hurt. That's stupid. That's me. Stupid.

Blah Aug

I would dive into the details. But, what difference would that make? I could go into the ins and outs. But that would only confuse those on the outs and upset those on the ins. I could detail all the diving. But that would require a set of definitions and parameters to begin. I could start at the beginning. But the end is what's at the beginning.