I feel terrible, but I don't care. That's the important bit. I'm sitting alone on my bed thinking about old flames and old failures, ignoring the successes. The beer tastes bad in my mouth, but I keep drinking.
There're ants in my beer. No matter, no matter. That's just more protein.
I'm watching the sad part of Casablanca.
I'm writing. I don't look back. It's my duty to write, because the more I write now, the more I'll write later. The more I write now, the more and more and more and more. There's no point in looking back, because what I wrote then isn't what I'm writing now.
You may know that I'm bipolar, and you might be able to guess which side of the pole I'm on right now. There are benefits, and it's not serious.
Anyways, my big damn plan for the next six months is to get one hundred short stories done, then compile ten short story collections of ten stories each with professional cover art and formatting. After that? Heck if I know, but probably more of the same. As I understand it, the only real objective I have is Write More. Everything else is secondary in this small business I've established.
Absinthe. I have no access to it, but it sounds complicated. I prefer my drinks to be only as complicated as "add soda, serve".
They certainly shouldn't have a special glass. That's just silly. I'm sure there used to be a better way to drink absinthe before the foodies got their hands on it.
Story? On Its Way
Long Story "Players of the Nuclear Theremin"
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Reading - ?