Drip.

Starting the day off with five moderately good shots of espresso and French jazz because Edith Piaf is one of the greatest things to happen to music and caffeine is one of the greatest things to happen to me.

After a brief voyage into strange and terrible places, I am back and radiating glory. The only real regret I have over the last couple days is that I didn't write a fucking word, and shame on me for that. There's poetry even in a massive depressive episode, dammit, and I'm going to catch it and pin it down next time 'round.

New songs are happening. Words are starting to gather around me like hungry pigeons, waiting to shit on me or peck my eyes out or maybe just eat my bread and fly away. That analogy may have escaped me but I'm still pretty fond of it.

Uh. So Christmas. I've written bitchy, miserable, misanthropic pieces about how Christmas is secretly a dark time of introspection and no one's actually happy. Younger me thought that I had stumbled on to some dark secret that maybe a few were privy to, or that maybe I was just IN TUNE enough to understand the Human Condition while everyone else lied to themselves. Christ, I was an egomaniacal little shit back in those days. This year, I've got Plans. I'm hosting an Island of Misfit Toys christmas involving myself, whoever wants to show up, multiple bottles of whiskey, and Die Hard. I've never seen Die Hard and dammit, this is as good an excuse as any.

The espresso's long since worn off. Time is getting lazy on me. This is good.