Lord Knows You’re Only Human

You’re tired, and you want to go home. And you can’t stop thinking about her, though you know it does you no good. Like Sisyphus you are condemned to push the rock –composed of self-reproach, chagrin, and yearning, in equal parts– up the bloody hill, only to have it roll back down. Your thoughts go in circles. The beer, wine and cocktails sloshing around in your stomach don’t exactly help to clear things up.


As some of you may know, or as all of you may not know, I am writing a novel. My father-in-law once said: every fool who has nothing else to do starts to write a book. Well, there you have it. In my defense, though, it should be said that he was referring to old men who write their memoirs. I am not yet what one would call old, and it’s not my memoirs I’m writing. Yeah. What I’m writing is totally cool, so there. You can read the first chapter here.
Oh, and, in case you were asking yourself, I am now listening to Professor Longhair. And, incidentally, I am on my second bottle of wine. I could use some cocaine, but nothing doing. I’m pretty fucking tired, actually. If I took cocaine now, I’d just keep drinking, and if I kept drinking, I’d take more cocaine… dang, would have balanced nicely.