Thursday, a nice day. A group of us went to a new - to us - Mexican restaurant in south Oakland. Too much food, albeit tasty-authentic-ordered in Spanish food, for a man who doesn't want to weigh more than his automobile. What am I saying? We ate well, what the hell, now and then you go out, pig out and come home happy. You don't return to the office and think "Who are these people? What am I doing here? Why am I not at home in my little bed, resting?"
Well, because it's the middle of the day on a Wednesday and you're at work, as you and the world are usually at work, and only small children ask such questions. "Only small children?" Only small children, dim bulb complainers and those born under a family Trust. And those who are allowed to write without an editor. Or a jailer. Or a clue. Doodle-dee-doo.
That ran out of gas pretty fast.
Yeah. There's probably a way to save it, polish, edit, come at it from a different direction; ruminate, cogitate, drink more of this here whiskey, but who has the time?
Some days you're high, some days you're dry, face it.
Oh, who knows? I'll sit back and let it percolate for a while. I admit I think I'd like to try something that takes more than an evening to write, something with a beginning, a middle, an end. But I've said that before and done nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Then, now, self. More whiskey?